DIEGO 


VENICE 


By  permission  of  the  late  Thomas  Threl/alt,  Esq. 

THE  CAMPANILE. 


WlMT 


VENICE 

BY 

BERYL  DE  SELINCOURT 

AND 

MAY  STURGE  HENDERSON 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 
REGINALD    BARRATT 

OF   THE    ROYAL  WATER-COLOR 
SOCIETY 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1907, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND   COMPANY 

Published,  October,  1907 


CONTENTS 

I  Page 

INTRODUCTORY      i 

II 
PHANTOMS  OF  THE  LAGOONS 16 

III 

THE  NUPTIALS  OF  VENICE 54 

IV 

VENICE  IN  FESTIVAL 74 

V 

A  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 98 

VI 

VENICE  OF  CRUSADE  AND  PILGRIMAGE  .     .     .     .     124 

VII 

Two  VENETIAN  STATUES 160 

VIII 

VENETIAN  WATERWAYS  (PART  I) 187 

IX 

VENETIAN  WATERWAYS  (PART  II) 253 

X 

ARTISTS  OF  THE  VENETIAN  RENAISSANCE  .     .     .     275 

XI 

THE  SOUL  THAT  ENDURES 317 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Campanile Frontispiece 

PAGE 

View  from  the  Gallery  of  San  Marco 7 

Santa  Maria  della  Salute 23 

The  Clock  Tower 37 

Riva  Degli  Schiavoni 57 

The  Doorway  of  San  Marco 71 

View  from  Ca  d'Oro 81 

Courtyard  of  the  Palazzo  Ducale 91 

San  Giorgio 107 

The  Dogana 119 

The  Shadow  of  the  Campanile 127 

The  Clock  Tower  from  Gallery  of  San  Marco      .     .     .  137 

The  Horses  of  San  Marco,  looking  South 147 

The  Horses  of  San  Marco,  looking  North 155 

In  the  Piazza 175 

View  on  the  Grand  Canal  from  San  Angelo       .     .     .     .  189 

Piazzetta,  The  Library 195 

Corner  of  the  Palazzo  Dario .  201 

A  Venetian  Bridge 219 

Palazzo  Sanudo 231 

A  Side  Canal 241 

The  Gondoliers'  Shrine 247 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal 257 

View  on  the  Grand  Canal 269 

Palazzo  Rezzonico 281 

Towards  the  Rialto  San  Angelo 29 1 

Bronze  Well-Head  by  Alberghetti  —  The  Courtyard   of 

Palazzo  Ducale 305 

Evening  in  the  Piazzetta 313 

A  Palace  Door 323 

Zattere 331 


VENICE 

Chapter  <®nt 

INTRODUCTORY 

"  ^T    T*ENICE  herself  is  poetry,  and  creates  a 

%/      poet  out  of  the  dullest  clay."     It  was  a 

poet  who  spoke,  and  his  clay  was  instinct 

with  the  breath  of  genius.     But  it    is    true   that 

Venice  lends  wings  to  duller  clay ;  it  has  been  her 

fate  to  make  poets  of  many  who  were  not  so  before 

—  a  responsibility  that  entails  loss  on  her  as  well 

as  gain. 

She  has  lived  —  she  has  loved  and  suffered  and 
created ;  and  the  echoes  of  her  creation  are  with 
us  still ;  the  pulse  of  the  life  which  once  she  knew 
continues  to  throb  behind  the  loud  and  insistent 
present.  The  story  of  Venice  has  been  often 
written  ;  the  Bride  of  the  Adriatic,  in  her  decay 
as  in  her  youthful  and  her  mature  beauty,  has 
been  the  beloved  of  many  men.  "  Wo  betide  the 
wretch,"  cries  Landor  through  the  mouth  of 
Machiavelli,  "  who  desecrates  and  humiliates  her ; 
she  may  fall,  but  she  shall  rise  again."  Venice 
even  then  had  passed  her  zenith ;  the  path  she 


VENICE 

had  entered,  though  blazing  with  a  glory  which 
had  not  attended  on  her  dawn  of  life,  was  yet  a 
path  of  decline,  the  resplendent,  dazzling  path  of 
the  setting  sun.  And  now  a  second  Attilla,  as 
Napoleon  vaunted  himself,  has  descended  upon 
her.  She  has  been  desecrated,  but  she  has  never 
been  dethroned.  She  could  not,  if  she  would, 
take  the  ring  off  her  finger.  No  hand  of  man, 
however  potent,  can  destroy  that  once  consum- 
mated union,  however  the  stranger  and  her  traitor 
sons  may  abase  her  from  within. 

It  is  to  her  own  domain,  embraced  by  her 
mutable  yet  eternally  faithful  ocean-lover,  that 
we  must  still  go  to  see  the  relics  of  her  pomp. 
The  old  sternness  has  passed  from  her  face,  that 
compelling  sovereignty  which  gave  her  rank 
among  the  greatest  potentates  of  the  Middle 
Age;  her  features,  portrayed  by  these  latter  days, 
are  mellowed ;  a  veil  of  golden  haze  softens  the 
bold  outlines  of  that  imperious  countenance.  We 
are  sometimes  tempted  to  forget  that  the  cup  held 
by  the  enchanter,  Venice,  was  filled  once  with  no 
dream-inducing  liquor,  but  with  a  strong  potion 
to  fire  the  nerves  of  heroes.  Viewing  Venice  in 
her  greater  days,  it  is  impossible  to  make  that  sepa- 
ration between  the  artist  and  the  man  of  action 
so  deadly  to  action  and  to  art.  The  portraits  of 

[    2] 


INTRODUCTORY 

the  Venetian  masters,  supreme  among  the  portraits 
of  the  world,  could  only  have  been  produced  by 
men  who  beyond  the  divine  perception  of  form 
and  colour  were  endowed  with  a  profound  under- 
standing and  divination  of  human  character.  The 
pictures  of  Gentile  Bellini,  of  Carpaccio,  of  Man- 
sueti,  are  a  gallery  of  portraits  of  stern,  strong, 
capable,  self-confident  men  ;  and  Giovanni  Bellini, 
who  turned  from  secular  themes  to  concentrate 
his  energy  on  the  portrayal  of  the  Madonna  and 
Child,  endowed  her  with  a  strength  and  solemn 
pathos  which  only  Giotto  could  rival,  combined 
with  a  luminous  richness  of  colour  in  which 
perhaps  he  has  no  rival  at  all. 

No  mystics  have  sprung  from  Venice.  Her 
sons  have  been  artists  of  life,  not  dreamers,  though 
the  sea,  that  great  weaver  of  dreams,  has  been  ever 
around  them.  Or  rather  it  is  truer  to  say  that  the 
dreamers  of  Venice  have  also  been  men  of  action  ; 
strong,  capable  and  intensely  practical.  They  have 
not  turned  their  back  on  the  practice  of  life ;  they 
have  loved  it  in  all  its  forms.  Even  when  they 
speak  through  the  medium  of  allegory,  of  symbols, 
the  art  of  Carpaccio  and  of  Tintoretto  is  a  supreme 
record  of  the  interests  of  the  greatest  Venetians  in 
the  actions  of  everything  living  in  this  wonderful 
world,  and  in  particular  —  they  are  not  ashamed 

[  3  ] 


VENICE 

to  own  it  —  in  their  supremely  wonderful  city  of 
Venice.  There  are  dreamers  among  those  crowds 
of  Carpaccio,  of  Gentile  Bellini ;  but  their  hands 
can  grasp  the  weapons  and  the  tools  of  earth  ;  their 
heads  and  hearts  can  wrestle  with  the  problems 
and  passions  of  earth.  Compare  them  with  the 
dreamers  of  Perugino's  school :  you  feel  at  once 
that  a  gulf  lies  between  them ;  the  fabric  of  their 
dream  is  of  another  substance.  The  great  Vene- 
tians are  giants ;  like  the  sea's,  their  embrace  is 
vast  and  powerful,  endowed  also  with  the  gentle- 
ness of  strength.  The  history  of  Venetian  great- 
ness in  art,  in  politics,  in  theology,  is  the  history 
of  men  who  have  accepted  life  and  strenuously 
devoted  themselves  to  mastering  its  laws.  They 
were  not  iconoclasts,  because  they  were  not  idola- 
ters :  the  faculties  of  temperance  and  restraint  are 
apparent  in  their  very  enthusiasms.  Venice  did 
not  fall  because  she  loved  life  too  well,  but  because 
she  had  lost  the  secret  of  living.  Pride  became  to 
her  more  beautiful  than  truth,  and  finally  more 
worshipful  than  beauty. 

Much  has,  with  truth,  been  said  about  the 
destruction  of  Venice.  Even  in  those  who  have 
not  known  her  as  she  was,  who  in  presence  of  her 
wealth  remaining  are  unconscious  of  the  greatness 
of  her  loss,  there  constantly  stirs  indignant  sorrow 

[  4  ] 


INTRODUCTORY 

at  the  childish  wantonness  of  her  inhabitants,  which 
loves  to  destroy  and  asks  only  a  newer  and  brighter 
plaything.  But  much  persists  that  is  indestructi- 
ble ;  and  though  Venice  has  become  a  spectacle  for 
strangers,  for  those  who  are  her  lovers  the  old 
spirit  lingers  still  near  the  form  it  once  so  glori- 
ously inhabited,  wakened  into  being,  perchance, 
by  a  motion,  an  echo,  a  light  upon  the  waters,  and 
once  wakened  never  again  lost  or  out  of  mind. 
Does  not  the  silent  swiftness  of  the  Ten  still  haunt 
the  sandolo  of  the  water  police,  as  it  steals  in  the 
darkness  with  unlighted  lamp  under  the  shadow  of 
larger  craft  moored  beside  the  fondamenta,  visible 
only  when  it  crosses  the  path  of  a  light  from  house 
or  garden  ?  It  is  in  her  water  that  Venice  eternally 
lives ;  it  is  thus  that  we  think  always  of  her  image 
—  elusive,  unfathomable,  though  plumbed  so  often 
by  no  novice  hand.  It  is  the  wonder  of  Venice 
within  her  waters  which  justifies  the  renewal  of 
the  old  attempt  to  reconstruct  certain  aspects  of  a 
career  which  has  been  a  challenge  to  the  world,  a 
mystery  on  which  it  has  never  grown  weary  of 
speculating.  And  as  the  light  falling  from  a  new 
angle  on  familiar  features  may  reveal  some  grace 
hidden  heretofore  in  shadow  or  unobserved,  so,  per- 
chance, the  vision  of  Venice  may  be  renewed  or 
kindled  through  the  medium  of  a  new  personality. 

[  5  ] 


VENICE 

Venice  is  inexhaustible,  and  it  is  from  her  wa- 
ters that  her  mine  of  wealth  is  drawn.  They  give 
her  wings ;  without  them  she  would  be  fettered 
like  other  cities  of  the  land.  But  Venice  with  her 
waters  is  never  dead.  The  sun  may  fall  with  cruel 
blankness  on  calle,  piazza  and  fondamenta,  but 
nothing  can  kill  the  water ;  it  is  always  mobile, 
always  alive.  Imagine  the  thoroughfare  of  an  in- 
land city  on  such  a  day  as  is  portrayed  in  Manet's 
Grand  Canal  de  Venue ;  heart  and  eye  would  curse 
the  sunshine.  But  in  the  luminous  truth  of  Manet's 
picture,  as  in  Venice  herself,  the  heat  quivers  and 
lives.  Above  ground,  blue  sky  beating  down  on 
blue  canal,  on  the  sleepy  midday  motion  of  the 
gondolas,  on  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  striped  gon- 
dola posts,  which  appear  to  stagger  into  the  water ; 
and  under  the  surface,  the  secret  of  Venice,  the 
region  where  reflections  lurk,  where  the  long 
wavering  lines  are  carried  on  in  the  deep,  cool, 
liquid  life  below.  When  Venice  is  weary,  what 
should  she  do  but  dive  into  the  water  as  all  her 
children  do  ?  If  we  look  down,  when  we  can 
look  up  no  longer,  still  she  is  there;  a  city  more 
shadowy  but  not  less  real,  her  elements  all  dissolved 
that  at  our  pleasure  we  may  build  them  again ; 

And  so  not  build  at  all, 
And  therefore  build  for  ever. 
[6] 


VIEW   FROM    THE   GALLERY   OF   SAN    MARCO. 


INTRODUCTORY 

And  if  in  the  middle  day  we  realise  this  price- 
less  dowry   of  Venice,   it    is   in   the   twilight   of 
morning  or  evening  that  her  treasury  is  unlocked 
and   she   invites   us  to  enter.     Turner's   Approach 
to  Venice  is  a  vision,  a  dream,  but  not  more  di- 
vinely lovely  than  the  reality  of  Venice  in  these 
hours,  even  as   she   appears   to  duller  eyes.      Pass 
down  the  Grand  Canal  in  the  twilight  of  an  Au- 
gust evening,  the  full  moon  already  high  and  pour- 
ing a  lustre  from  her  pale  green  halo  on  the  broad 
sweeping  path  of  the  Canal.     The  noble  curves 
of  the  houses  to  west  and  south  shut  out  the  light ; 
day  is  past,  the  reign  of  night  has  begun.      Then 
cross  to  the  Zattere :  you  pass  into  another  day.    A 
full  tide  flows  from  east  to  west,  blue  and  swelling 
like  the  sea,  dyed   in  the  west  a  shining  orange 
where  the  Euganean  hills  rise  in  clear  soft  outline 
against  the  afterglow,  while  to  the  east  the  moon 
has   laid   her   silver   bridle  upon   the  dim  waters. 
Cross  to  the  Giudecca  and  pass  along  the  narrow, 
crowded  quay  into  the  old  palace,  which  in  that 
deserted  corner  shows  one  dim  lamp  to  the  canal. 
The  great  hall  opens  at  the  further  end  on  a  bow- 
ery garden  where  a  fountain  drips  in  the  darkness 
and   the  cicalas  begin  their  piping.      Mount   the 
winding  stair,  past  the  kitchen  and  the  great  key- 
shaped  reception  room,  and  look  out  over  the  city 

[  9  3 


VENICE 

—  across  the  whole  sweep  of  the  magnificent  Giu- 
decca  Canal  and  the  basin  of  San  Marco.  The 
orange  glow  is  fading  and  the  Euganean  hills  are 
dying  into  the  night,  while  near  at  hand  one  great 
golden  star  is  setting  behind  the  Church  of  the 
Redentore,  and  the  moon  shines  with  full  brilliance 
upon  the  swaying  waters,  upon  the  Ducal  Palace 
and  the  churches  of  the  Zattere,  with  the  Salute 
as  their  chief.  The  night  of  Venice  has  begun ; 
she  has  put  on  her  jewels  and  is  blazing  with  light. 
At  the  back  of  the  house,  where  the  lagoons  lie 
in  the  shimmering  moonlight,  is  a  silent  waste  of 
waters  under  the  stars,  broken  only  by  the  lights 
of  the  islands.  This  also  is  Venice,  this  mystery 
of  moonlit  water  no  less  than  the  radiance  of  the 
city.  And  it  is  possible  to  come  still  nearer  to  the 
lagoon.  Passing  along  a  dark  rio  little  changed 
from  the  past,  we  may  cross  a  bridge  into  one  of 
the  wonderful  gardens  for  which  the  Giudecca  is 
famous.  The  families  of  the  Silvi,  Barbolini  and 
Istoili,  banished  in  the  ninth  century  for  stirring 
up  tumult  in  the  Republic,  when  at  last  they  were 
recalled  by  intercession  of  Emperor  Ludovico,  in- 
habited this  island  of  Spinalunga  or  Giudecca  and 
laid  out  gardens  there.  This  one  seems  made  for 
the  night.  The  moonlight  streams  through  the 
vine  pergolas  which  cross  it  in  every  direction, 

[  10  ] 


lights  the  broad  leaves  of  the  banana  tree  and  the 
dome  of  the  Salute  behind  the  dark  cypress-spire, 
and  stars  the  grass  with  shining  petals.  The  night 
is  full  of  the  scent  of  haystacks  built  along  the 
edge  of  the  lagoon,  beside  the  green  terrace  which 
runs  the  length  of  the  water-wall.  Then,  as  dark- 
ness deepens,  we  leave  to  the  cicalas  their  moon- 
lit paradise,  and  glide  once  more  into  the  Grand 
Canal.  It  is  at  this  hour,  more  than  at  any  other, 
that,  sweeping  round  the  curves  of  that  marvellous 
waterway,  it  possesses  us  as  an  idea,  a  presence  that 
is  not  to  be  put  by,  so  compelling,  so  vitally  crea- 
tive, is  its  beauty.  Truly  Venice  is  poetry,  and 
would  create  a  poet  out  of  the  dullest  clay. 

Every  one  will  remember  that  a  few  years  ago 
an  enterprising  man  of  business  attempted  with  sub- 
lime self-confidence  to  transfer  Venice  to  London, 
to  enclose  her  within  the  walls  of  a  great  exhi- 
bition. Many  of  us  delighted  in  the  miniature 
market  of  Rialto,  in  gliding  through  the  narrow 
waterways,  in  the  cry  of  the  gondoliers,  and  the 
sound  of  violin  and  song  across  the  water.  But 
one  gift  in  the  portion  of  Venice  was  forgotten,  a 
gift  which  she  shares  indeed  with  other  cities,  but 
which  she  alone  can  put  out  to  interest  and  in- 
crease a  thousandfold.  The  sky  is  the  roof  of  all 
the  world,  but  Venice  alone  is  paved  with  sky;  and 


VENICE 

the  streets  of  Venice  with  no  sky  above  them  are 
like  the  wings  of  the  butterfly  without  the  sun. 
Tintoret  and  Turner  saw  Venice  as  the  offspring 
of  sky  and  water :  that  is  the  spirit  in  which  they 
have  portrayed  her ;  that  is  the  essence  of  her  life. 
It  has  penetrated  everything  she  has  created  of 
enduring  beauty.  Go  into  San  Marco  and  look 
down  at  what  your  feet  are  treading.  Venice, 
whose  streets  are  paved  with  sky,  must  in  her 
church  also  have  sky  beneath  her  feet.  It  is  im- 
possible to  imagine  a  more  wonderful  pavement 
than  the  undulating  marbles  of  San  Marco ;  its 
rich  and  varied  colours  bound  together  with  the 
rarest  inspiration  ;  orient  gems  captured  and  im- 
prisoned and  constantly  lit  with  new  and  vivid 
beauty  from  the  domes  above.  The  floor  of  San 
Marco  is  one  of  the  glories  of  Venice  —  of  the 
world ;  and  it  is  surely  peculiarly  expressive  of 
the  inspiration  which  worked  in  Venice  in  the  days 
of  her  creative  life.  San  Marco,  indeed,  in  its 
superb  and  dazzling  harmonies  of  colour,  is  almost 
the  only  living  representative  of  the  Venice  of 
pomegranate  and  gold  which  created  the  Ca  d'Oro, 
•of  the  city  of  Carpaccio  and  Gentile  Bellini,  whose 
•cornice-mouldings  were  interwoven  with  glitter- 
ing golden  thread,  while  every  side  canal  gave 
back  a  glow  of  colour  from  richly-tinted  walls. 

[  12  ] 


INTRODUCTORY 

The  banners  of  the  Lion  in  the  Piazza  no  longer 
wave  in  solemn  splendour  of  crimson  and  gold 
above  a  pavement  of  pale  luminous  red ;  in  their 
place  the  tricolour  of  Italy  flaunts  over  colourless 
uniformity.  The  gold  is  fading  from  the  Palace 
of  the  Doges,  and  only  in  a  few  rare  nooks,  such 
as  the  Scuola  of  the  Shoemakers  in  the  Campo  San 
Toma,  do  we  find  the  original  colours  of  an  old 
relief  linger  in  delicate  gradation  over  window  or 
door. 

Day  after  day  some  intimate  treasure  is  torn 
from  the  heart  of  Venice.  Since  Ruskin  wrote, 
one  leaf  after  another  has  been  cut  from  the 
Missal  which  "  once  lay  open  upon  the  waves, 
miraculous,  like  St.  Cuthbert's  book,  a  golden 
legend  on  countless  leaves."  Those  leaves  are 
numbered  now.  Year  by  year  some  familiar 
object  disappears  from  bridge  or  doorway,  to  be 
labelled  and  hoarded  in  a  distant  museum  among 
aliens  and  exiles  like  itself.  And  here,  in  Venice 
itself,  a  sentiment  of  distress,  the  fastidio  of  the 
Italians,  comes  over  us  as  we  ponder  upon  the 
sculptured  relics  in  the  cortile  of  the  Museo  Civico. 
What  meaning  have  they  here  ?  It  is  atmosphere 
that  they  need  —  the  natural  surroundings  that 
would  explain  and  vivify  their  forms.  Many  also 
of  the  Venetian  churches  are  despoiled,  and  their 

[  13  1 


VENICE 

paintings  hung  side  by  side  with  alien  subjects  in 
a  light  they  were  never  intended  to  bear.  The 
Austrian  had  less  power  to  hurt  Venice  than  she 
herself  possesses.  In  those  of  her  sons  who  under- 
stand her  malady  there  flows  an  undercurrent  of 
deep  sadness,  as  if  day  by  day  they  watched  the 
ebbing  of  a  life  in  which  all  their  hope  and  all 
their  love  had  root.  They  cannot  sever  themselves 
from  Venice :  they  cannot  save  her.  Venice  pre- 
tending to  share  in  the  vulgar  life  of  to-day, 
Venice  recklessly  discarding  one  glory  after  another 
for  the  poor  exchange  of  coin,  still  has  a  power 
over  us  not  wielded  by  the  inland  cities  of  Italy, 
happier  in  the  untroubled  beauty  of  their  decay. 
For,  as  you  are  turning  with  sorrow  from  some 
fresh  sign  of  pitiless  destruction,  of  a  sudden  she 
will  flash  upon  you  a  new  facet  of  her  magic  stone, 
will  draw  you  spell-bound  to  her  waters  and  weave 
once  more  that  diaphanous  web  of  radiant  mystery: 

Za  per  dirtelo,  —  o  Catina, 
La  campagna  me  consola ; 
Ma  Venezia  e  la  sola 
Che  me  possa  contentar. 

Each  of  us,  face  to  face  with  Venice,  has  a  new 
question  to  ask  of  her,  and,  as  he  alone  framed  the 
question,  the  answer  will  be  given  to  him  alone. 
Every  stone  has  not  yielded  up  its  secret :  in  some 

[  14] 


INTRODUCTORY 

there  may  still  be  a  mark  yet  unperceived  beneath 
the  dust.  Here  and  there  in  her  manuscript  there 
may  lurk  between  the  lines  a  word  for  the  skilled 
or  the  fortunate.  Venice  is  not  yet  dumb  :  every 
day  and  every  night  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars 
make  music  in  her  that  has  not  yet  been  heard : 
with  patience  and  love  we  may  redeem  here  and 
there  a  chord  of  those  divine  musicians,  or  at  least 
a  tone  which  shall  make  her  harmony  more  full. 

O  Venezia  benedetta, 
No  te  vogio  piu  lassar. 


[   15  1 


Chapter  'Ctoo 

PHANTOMS   OF   THE   LAGOONS 

WE  have  called  them  the  phantoms  of  the 
lagoons,  those  islands  that  lie  like 
shadows  among  the  silver  waters  ;  for 
it  is  in  this  likeness  that  they  appear  to  us  of 
the  city  —  strangely  mirrored,  remote,  a  group 
of  clustering  spirits,  whose  common  halo  is  the 
sea.  They  are  a  choir  of  spirits,  yet  each  has  a 
mute  music  of  its  own,  and  accosting  them  one  by 
one  —  slowly  and  in  the  silence  entering  into  their 
life  —  we  may  come  to  know  and  love  the  several 
members  of  this  company  of  the  blest,  till  our 
senses  grow  alive  to  their  harmony  as  they  sing- 
together,  sometimes  in  the  clear,  cold  light  of  the 
spreading  dawn,  sometimes  in  the  evening  twilight 
—  when  peak  after  peak  is  lit  with  the  flame  of 
sacrifice  and,  in  the  Titanic  memory  of  the  sunset 
cloud,  the  great  fire  lit  on  earth  burns  up  with 
solemn  flames  into  the  sky. 

All  the  languors,  the  fierce  passions,  of  Venice, 
her  vitality  and  her  mysticism,  are  mirrored  in  the 
lagoons  ;  there  is  no  pulse  of  Venice  that  does  not 

[  16] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

beat  in  them;  in  swift  sequence,  as  in  a  lighter 
element,  they  reflect  the  phases  of  her  being. 
And  the  islands  of  the  lagoons  are,  as  it  were,  the 
footsteps  of  young  Venice.  As  she  was  passing 
into  her  kingdom,  she  set  her  feet  here  and  there 
among  the  waters,  and  where  she  trod  a  life  was 
born.  Her  roots  are  far  back  in  the  past,  far  up 
upon  the  mainland,  where  still  remain  some  frag- 
ments of  the  giant  growth,  which,  grafted  in  the 
lagoons,  was  to  expand  there  into  a  new  fulness 
of  beauty  and  life.  It  is  as  if  the  genius  that 
conceived  Jesolo,  Torcello,  the  Madonna  of  San 
Donate,  had  undergone  a  sea-change  as  it  moved 
towards  the  Adriatic,  as  if  some  vision  had  passed 
before  it  and  shaken  it,  as  if  the  immutable  had 
felt  the  first  touch  of  mutability  —  had  been 
endowed  with  a  new  sense  born  of  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  ocean  tides.  In  Malamocco  she  stepped 
too  near  the  sea,  and  left  behind  the  mystery  of  a 
city  submerged ;  but  no  one  can  receive  into  his 
mind  the  peerless  blue  and  green  of  the  open 
water  beyond  the  Lido,  with  the  foam  upon  it,  or 
the  sound  of  its  incessant  sweep  against  the  shore, 
without  feeling  that  the  spirit  that  had  thus 
embraced  the  sea  had  received  a  new  pulse  into 
her  being  —  a  nerve  of  desire,  of  expansion,  of 
motion,  which  her  mountain  infinitudes  had  not 


VENICE 

inspired.  And  with  the  new  life  came  new 
dreams  to  Venice,  dreams  she  was  not  slow  to 
realise,  and  into  them  were  woven  materials  for 
which  we  should  seek  in  vain  among  the  islands, 
except  in  so  far  as  the  reflex  of  her  later  activities 
fell  also  upon  them.  The  Madonna  of  San  Donate 
is  the  goddess  of  the  lagoons  ;  and  if  there  are 
children  of  Venice  who  creep  also  for  blessing  and 
for  protection  to  the  borders  of  her  dusky  garment, 
they  are  but  few.  The  mystic  beauty  of  that 
Madonna  was  not  the  beauty  that  inspired  Venice 
when  she  built  upon  the  seas.  The  robe  of  her 
divinity  was  more  akin  to  the  dazzling  incompa- 
rable blue  of  the  bay  that  lies  within  the  curve  of 
the  Schiavoni,  as  we  may  see  it  from  the  Palazzo 
Ducale  on  a  morning  of  sunshine  and  east  wind  ; 
that  indomitable  intensity  of  colour,  unveiled, 
resplendent,  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  whole 
radiance  and  strength  and  glory  of  the  day  —  that 
is  the  girdle  of  Venice,  the  cup  she  drank  of  in 
her  strength.  But  it  is  clear  that  she  had  bowed 
to  a  new  dominion  :  with  the  ocean  she  wedded 
the  world. 

The  lagoons  are  full  of  mysteries  of  light ;  they 
are  a  veritable  treasure  ground  of  illusion.  They 
are  not  one  expanse  of  water  over  which  the  light 
broods  with  equable  influence ;  they  form  a  region 

[  18  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

of  various  circles,  as  it  were,  of  various  degrees  of 
remoteness  or  tangibility.  Almost  one  feels  that 
each  circle  must  be  inhabited  by  a  spirit  appropri- 
ate to  itself,  and  that  a  common  language  could 
not  be  between  them,  so  sharp  are  the  limits  set 
by  the  play  of  light.  On  an  early  autumn  morn- 
ing when  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  sun  streams  full 
and  level  upon  the  clear  blue  expanse  that  sepa- 
rates Venice  and  Mestre,  we  seem  to  have  a  firm 
foothold  on  this  dancing  water.  It  is  a  substantial 
glory  ;  but  as  our  eye  flits  on  from  jewel  to  jewel 
in  the  clear  blue  paving,  a  sudden  line  is  drawn 
beyond  which  it  may  not  pass.  The  rich  flood  of 
vital  colour  has  its  bound,  and  beyond  it  lies  a 
region  bathed  in  light  so  intense  that  even  colour 
is  refined  into  a  mystic  whiteness — a  mirror  of 
crystal,  devoid  of  substance,  infinitely  remote ;  and 
above  it,  suspended  in  that  lucent  unearthly  atmos- 
phere, hover  the  towers  of  Torcello  and  Burano, 
like  a  mirage  of  the  desert,  midway  between  the 
water  and  the  sky.  They  hang  there  in  completest 
isolation,  yet  with  a  precise  definition,  a  startling 
clearness  of  contour.  There  is  no  vestige  of  other 
buildings  or  of  the  earth  on  which  they  stand,  only 
the  dome  and  campanile  of  Murano,  the  leaning 
spire  of  Burano  and  Mazzorbo's  lightning-blasted 
tower,  their  reflections  distinctly  mirrored  in  a  lu- 
ll i9  ] 


VENICE 

minous  medium,  half  mist,  half  water.  There  is 
an  immense  awe  in  the  vision  of  these  phantoms, 
caught  up  into  a  region  where  the  happy  radiant 
colour  dares  not  play;  and  yet  not  veiled — clearer  in 
what  they  choose  to  reveal  than  the  near  city  strong 
and  splendid  in  the  unreserve  of  the  young  day, 
but  so  unearthly,  so  magical,  that  our  morning 
spirits  scarcely  dare  accost  them.  What  boat 
shall  navigate  that  shining  nothingness  that  divides 
them  from  our  brave  and  brilliant  water  ? 

Venice,  indeed,  at  times  falls  under  the  phantom 
spell.  In  those  mornings  of  late  autumn  when  the 
duel  between  the  sun  and  the  scirocco  seems  as  if 
it  could  not  end  till  day  is  done  and  night  calls 
up  her  reinforcements  of  mist,  Venice  is  herself  the 
ghost,  her  goblet  brimming  with  a  liquor  that 
seems  the  drink  of  death,  a  perilous,  grey,  steely 
vapour.  One  only  of  her  islands  looms  out  of  the 
enfolding,  foggy  blanket :  it  is  San  Michele,  the 
island  of  the  dead.  On  such  a  morning  we  may 
visit  this  abode  of  shadows,  not  at  this  hour  more 
strange,  more  ghostly,  than  the  city.  To-day  a 
veil  is  hung  upon  the  hard,  bare  outline  of  its  boun- 
dary wall,  which  in  sunny  weather  is  a  glaring  eye- 
sore as  you  travel  towards  Murano  over  the  lagoon. 
Here,  in  the  cloisters  where  once  Fra  Mauro 
dreamed  and  studied  his  famous  Mappamondo, 

[  20  ] 


PHANTOMS   OF   THE    LAGOONS 

there  is  nothing  to  terrify  the  spirit  on  this  morn- 
ing of  the  mist.  The  black  and  tinsel  drapings, 
the  strange,  unprofitable  records  of  devotion  and 
bereavement,  the  panoply  of  death  —  all  these  are 
veiled,  and  only  the  wild  grasses  glisten  with  their 
dewdrops  on  the  graves  of  the  very  poor,  or  autumn 
leaves  and  flowers  gleam  from  less  humble  graves, 
while  the  cypresses  raise  their  solemn  spires  into 
the  faintly  dawning  blue.  But  the  cemetery  island 
of  San  Michele  together  with  the  islands  of  the 
Giudecca  and  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  of  San  Pietro 
di  Castello  and  Sant'  Elena,  with  many  lesser 
islands  close  to  Venice,  have  become  absorbed  for 
us  in  the  life  of  the  city  itself.  Their  bells  and 
hers  sound  together ;  we  see  them  as  one  with  her, 
and  from  them  look  out  to  the  wider  lagoon, 
where  the  remoter  islands,  the  true  phantoms, 
wander.  Many  of  those  near  to  Venice  have  had 
their  vicissitudes,  their  sometime  glorious  past,  their 
pomp  and  solemn  festival.  But,  bit  by  bit,  it  has 
been  stolen  from  them,  and  the  treasures  which 
once  they  stored  have  been  destroyed  or  gathered 
into  the  city.  Now  they  serve  only  as  shelters  for 
those  whose  life  is  done  —  as  places  of  repose  for 
the  dead  or  for  the  sick  in  mind  and  body.  One 
only  has  passed  from  humble  service  into  a  fuller 
and  happier  present.  San  Lazzaro,  once  the  shelter 

[    21    ] 


VENICE 

of  lepers  from  the  East,  has  become  under  the  Ar- 
menian Benedictines  a  haunt  of  active,  cultured  life. 
It  has  a  living  industry,  printing  the  ancient  trade 
of  Venice,  and  is  in  daily  commerce  with  the  East. 
Torcello  is  a  cltta  mortay  but  scarcely  a  cemetery 
or  a  ruin.  Relics  of  a  past  older  than  even  Tor- 
cello  has  known  are  gathered  into  the  humble  urn 
of  her  museum ;  beside  it  stands  abandoned,  but 
not  in  ruins,  the  group  of  the  cathedral  buildings 
and  the  vast  secular  campanile ;  beyond  this  there 
is  nothing  but  the  soil  —  the  golden  gardens  of 
vine  and  pomegranate,  the  fields  of  maize  and  arti- 
chokes between  their  narrow  canals.  The  inter- 
vening period  has  entirely  vanished ;  it  is  like  a 
dream.  The  page  of  populous  palatial  Torcello 
has  been  blotted  out  as  if  it  had  had  no  existence. 
No  vestige  remains  of  the  churches  which  in 
the  old  maps  nourished  along  the  chief  canal,  of 
the  names  which  in  the  documents  have  no  unsub- 
stantial sound.  None  now  can  remember  the  time 
when  the  spoiler  was  busy  among  the  ruined  pal- 
aces ;  he  too  has  passed  into  the  shadows,  and  the 
very  stones  of  Torcello  are  scattered  far  and  wide. 
There  is  something  mysterious  in  this  complete 
wiping  out  of  a  page  of  history,  so  that  not  time 
only,  but  even  the  mourners  of  time  have  disap- 
peared. There  is  something  unique  in  the  isola- 

[  22  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

tion  of  the  cathedral  and  the  campanile,  rising  thus 
out  of  the  far  past  —  this  mighty  masonry  alone 
among  the  herbs  of  the  field.  Of  her  great  his- 
tory Torcello  brings  only  the  first  page  and  the 
last,  the  duomo,  the  peasants'  houses  and  the  thatch 
shelters  of  their  boats.  Wandering  along  the 
grassy  paths  beside  the  vineyards,  the  pomegran- 
ates, the  golden  thorn  bushes  of  Torcello,  we  seem 
in  a  sleepy  pastoral  land  where  the  sun  always 
shines.  Torcello  seems  ripe,  rich  ground  for  a 
new  life  rather  than  the  cemetery  of  an  old ;  and 
we  may  feed  the  fancy  as  we  will,  for  she  does  not 
refuse  her  doom ;  she  has  no  hard  contrasts  of  the 
old  and  new. 

The  few  natives  whom  foreign  gold  supports 
upon  this  island  of  malaria,  have  their  chief  haunts 
in  the  cathedral  campo,  keeping  guard  over  the 
treasures  of  the  past.  For  here  upon  the  campo 
stands  the  urn  where  Torcello  keeps  the  ashes 
of  her  ancestors  —  strange  relics  of  old  Altinum, 
pathetic  household  gods,  forks  and  spoons  and 
safety-pins,  keys  and  necklaces,  lamps  and  broken 
plates  and  vases,  chains  and  girdles  and  mighty 
bracelets,  some  of  delicate  and  some  of  coarser 
make,  with  more  ambitious  works  of  mosaic  and 
relief,  Greek  and  Roman  and  Oriental.  There  is 
little  in  all ;  yet  as  we  stand  here  in  the  museum, 

[  25  ] 


VENICE 

looking  out  through  the  sunny  window  on  the 
hazy  autumn  gold  of  earth  and  the  shimmering 
water  beyond,  this  little  speaks  eloquently  to  the 
mind.  Even  to  Torcello,  the  aged,  these  things 
are  ancestral;  their  life  was  in  the  old  Altinum 
when  Torcello  lay  still  undreamed-of  in  the  womb 
of  time.  Climb  the  campanile,  and  you  will 
wonder  no  more  at  the  passing  of  the  city  at  its 
feet ;  it  is  so  mighty,  so  self-contained  and  now 
so  voiceless  with  any  tongue  that  earth  can  hear 
and  understand ;  almost  it  seems  as  if  that 
iron  clapper,  lying  mute  below  the  bell,  were 
symbol  of  Torcello's  farewell  to  the  busy  populous 
world  that  needs  the  call  to  prayer.  The  great 
tower  is  given  up  to  mighty  musings,  and  we  upon 
its  summit  speculate  no  more  on  the  forgotten 
Middle  Age ;  we  are  content  in  the  golden  earth 
beneath  our  feet,  in  the  soft  dreamy  azure  of  the 
encircling  lagoon,  where  in  the  low  tide  the  deep 
tracks  wind  and  writhe  like  glistening  water- 
snakes,  or  lie,  like  the  faint  transparent  veining  of 
a  leaf,  upon  that  smooth  expanse  of  interchanging 
marsh  and  water,  the  uncertain  dominion  over 
which  Torcello  towers.  For  the  campanile,  in  its 
vast  simplicity  of  structure,  its  loneliness,  its  dura- 
tion, is  of  kin  with  those  great  sentinels  of  the 
desert  in  which  the  Egyptians  embodied  their 

[  26  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

giant  dreams  of  power.  It  is  here  that  the  soul 
of  Torcello  still  abides,  to  dream  out  upon  the 
mystery  of  day  and  night  to  the  mountains  and 
the  city  and  the  sea.  And  even  if  the  sunlight 
is  rich  and  jubilant  in  the  yellow  fields  below, 
where  the  autumn  has  such  fitting  habitation, 
it  spreads  upon  the  waters  a  broad  path  of  silver 
that  gleams  mysteriously  like  moonlight  upon 
the  distant  spaces  of  the  ocean  shield,  waking 
points  of  light  out  of  the  immense  surrounding 
dimness.  And  it  is  most  of  all  in  the  deep 
night  that  the  gulf  of  the  centuries  may  be 
bridged.  The  monotonous  piping  of  the  cicalas 
rises  even  to  this  height  in  the  darkness,  but  no 
other  sound  is  heard.  It  is  a  strangely  moving, 
melancholy  landscape,  half  hidden,  half  revealed, 
still  holding  in  its  patient,  silent  heart  the  tragic 
sorrows,  the  hopes  and  shattered  longings,  the 
courageous  struggle  of  the  past  ages,  the  fierce 
cry  of  desolation,  the  flames  of  cities  doomed  to 
destruction  in  the  darkness  of  night,  and  their 
ruins  outspread  beneath  the  unsparing  sun.  It  has 
lain  now  so  long  deserted,  a  presence  from  which 
the  stream  of  life  has  flowed  away,  carrying  with 
it  all  the  agitations  of  joy  and  sorrow,  that  among 
the  fluctuating  marshes  the  key  for  its  deciphering 
has  been  lost. 

[  27  ] 


VENICE 

As  we  have  said,  whole  pages  are  torn  from 
the  history  of  Torcello.  Fragments  only  remain. 
But  here  and  there  is  a  word  or  two  that  may 
be  gathered  into  a  sentence.  If  we  approach  the 
island  from  the  east,  by  the  waterway  between 
Sant'  Erasmo  and  Tre  Porti  instead  of  by  the 
narrow  channels  of  the  inner  lagoon,  we  may 
receive  some  impression  of  the  relation  it  once 
bore  to  the  mainland.  We  may  see  how  Torcello 
stands  as  the  entrance  of  the  lagoon  north  of 
Venice,  the  last  outpost  of  the  mainland,  the  first- 
fruits  of  a  new  career  —  recognise  that  she  was 
once  through  the  Portus  Torcellus  in  closest  touch 
with  the  high  seas.  In  the  ninth  century  it  was 
one  Rustico  of  Torcello  who  combined  with 
Buono  of  Malamocco  to  carry  the  bones  of  St. 
Mark  from  Alexandria  to  Venice.  In  1268 
Torcello  is  specially  mentioned  by  da  Canal  e 
among  the  "  Contrees,  que  armerent  lor  navie, 
et  vindrent  a  lor  signer  Mesire  Laurens  Teuple 
(Lorenzo  Tiepolo)  li  haut  Dus  de  Venise,  et  a 
Madame  la  Duchoise  "  on  the  occasion  of  Tie- 
polo's  election.  Torcello  contributed  three  galleys 
completely  equipped  for  the  Genoese  war,  and  in 
1463  sent  one  hundred  crossbowmen  in  the  service 
of  the  Republic  against  Trieste. 

What  is  left  of  this  city,  which  shared  the  early 

[  28  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

glory  if  not  the  later  pomp  of  Venice  ?     Where 
are    her    palaces,   her    gardens,   her    bridges,    her 
waterways  ?     Where    are    her  piazzas    and    calles 
and  fondamentas,  her  churches  and  rich  convents  ? 
We  pass  their  names  in  the  old  chronicles  :  Piazza 
del  Duomo,  Rio  Campo  di  San  Giovanni,  Fonda- 
menta   dei   Borgognoni,    Calle  Santa  Margherita, 
Fondamenta  Bobizo,  Ponte  di  Cha  Delfino,  Ponte 
de  Pino,  and  the  rest.     Many  of  these  were  of 
very  old   foundation  :   their   stones  and   traces  of 
their  construction  have  been  discovered  from  time 
to  time   under   the   mud  of  the   canals.     In  the 
poor  houses  of  the  peasants  traces  still  remain  of 
original  windows,  cornices  and  pillars ;  the  main 
canal  is  still  spanned  by  the  beautiful  ruined  bridge 
of  the  Diavolo.     But  for  the  rest  the  grass  piazza 
with    its    little    group   of  buildings,   its    museum 
flanked  by  the  cathedral,  is  the  sole  echo,  itself  no 
more  than  an  echo  of  the  past. 

When  Altinum  and  her  neighbouring  cities 
roused  themselves  from  the  crushing  desolation  of 
conquest  which  had  driven  them  forth  to  the 
remote  borders  of  the  mainland,  they  began  to 
desire  to  live  anew  in  the  lagoons.  There  is 
no  reason  to  question  Dandolo's  statement  that 
Torcello  and  the  group  of  surrounding  islands, 
Burano,  Mazzorbo,  Constanziana,  Amoriana  and 

[  29  ] 


VENICE 

Ammiana,  were  named  from  the  gates  of  Altinum 
—  a  pathetic  attempt  to  perpetuate  the  ruined 
city.  Nuovo  Altino  was  indeed  the  name  for 
Torcello,  and  when  the  terror  of  invasion  had 
momentarily  passed,  the  fugitives  ventured  back 
to  the  mainland,  and  brought  down  to  the  soft- 
soiled  island  the  stones  of  their  ancient  city. 
Torcello  was  built  from  the  stones  of  Altinum ; 
her  very  stones  were  veterans,  the  stamp  of  old 
times  was  upon  them,  the  stamp  of  thoughts  that 
were  often  sealed  for  those  men  of  a  later  day  who 
built  them  anew  into  their  temples.  The  steps  up 
to  the  pulpit  in  the  duomo  are  perhaps  the  most 
striking  instance  of  this  ingrafting  of  the  old  upon 
the  new,  the  naive  earnestness,  perhaps  the  urgent 
haste  and  need  of  builders  who  did  not  fear  to  set 
an  old  pagan  relief  to  do  service  in  this  temple 
of  their  Christian  God.  There  are  various  theo- 
ries as  to  the  meaning  of  the  wonderful  relief 
which  forms  the  base  of  the  pulpit  stair,  cut  like 
its  companion  slabs  to  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  stair  without  regard  to  its  individual  existence. 
We  cannot  help  pausing  before  it ;  for  it  is  unique 
among  the  monuments  of  the  estuary,  so  unique 
that  it  seems  incredible  it  should  have  been  the 
work  of  those  late  Greek  artists  who  executed  the 
wonderful  beasts  and  birds  of  the  sanctuary  screen. 

[  30  ] 


PHANTOMS   OF   THE    LAGOONS 

On  the  right  is  a  woman's  figure,  of  Egyptian 
rather  than  Greek  or  Roman  mould,  standing 
with  averted  face  and  head  resting  on  her  arms,  in 
melancholy  thought.  Beside  her  a  man,  like  her 
resigned  and  meditative  in  attitude,  but  not  yet 
with  the  resignation  of  despair,  raises  his  left  arm 
as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.  The  blow  is  dealt  left- 
handed  by  one  who  in  his  right  hand  holds  a  pair 
of  scales  and  advances  swiftly  on  winged  wheels. 
He,  again,  is  met  in  his  advance  by  a  fourth  figure 
whom  we  only  see  in  part,  his  right  side  having 
been  almost  completely  cut  away.  He  is  fronting 
us,  however  —  his  feet  planted  firmly  on  the 
ground,  his  right  hand  folded  on  his  breast,  while 
with  his  left  he  grasps  the  forelock  of  the  impet- 
uous figure  of  the  winged  wheels  and  balances. 
Thanks  to  the  happy  discovery  by  Professor  Cat- 
taneo  of  part  of  the  fragment  missing  to  the 
design,  we  know  that  a  woman's  figure  stood 
beyond  him,  holding  in  her  left  hand  a  palm  and 
in  her  right  a  crown  which  she  raises  to  the  stal- 
wart conqueror's  head.  It  is  a  simple  but  daring 
and  most  spirited  composition.  It  seems  to  be- 
long to  a  far  remoter  past  than  that  of  the  earliest 
building  of  Torcello.  Professor  Cattaneo  explains 
it  as  an  allegory  of  the  passage  of  Time,  who  on 
his  winged  wheels  has  already  passed  one  man  by, 


VENICE 

as  he  stands  stroking  his  beard,  while  tears  and 
sorrow  await  him  in  the  form  of  the  woman  on 
his  right  in  mourning  guise  and  posture;  the  stal- 
wart man  on  the  left  is  he  who  faces  Time  and 
takes  him  by  the  forelock,  and  for  him  the  crown 
and  palm  of  victory  are  in  waiting.  But  Professor 
Cattaneo  seems  to  give  a  needlessly  limited  signif- 
icance to  the  idea  of  Time.  It  is  to  him  the 
Time  which  God  offers  to  man  that  he  may  do 
what  is  just  and  combat  his  own  evil  passions ;  this 
seems  to  him  to  be  expressed  by  the  scales  and  the 
stick  he  grasps  in  his  hand.  Perhaps  it  is  enough 
to  think  merely  of  the  club  as  that  with  which  a 
more  familiar  Time  is  wont  to  deal  back-handed 
blows  at  those  who  are  so  idle  or  so  sluggish  as  to 
let  him  pass.  At  any  rate  the  men  of  Torcello 
could  comprehend  this  language  of  the  rough 
stone.  What  matter  if  the  oracles  were  dumb  ? 
Which  of  them  had  not  wept  to  see  the  face  of 
Time  averted,  which  of  them  had  not  felt  the 
weight  of  his  backward  blow  ?  And  yet  this 
symbol  of  old  Time  must  have  been  mute  to  them 
before  the  great  solemn  Madonna  in  the  dusky, 
golden  circle  of  the  apse  ;  she  looks  beyond  all 
fortunes  and  vicissitudes  of  man.  How  should 
they  dare  to  pray  to  her  ?  Worship  they  may, 
and  rise  with  strength  to  contend  with  Time  and 

[  32  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

conquer  him,  with  a  weapon  to  face  the  mystery 
of  life ;  but  they  meet  here  no  smile  of  comfort, 
no  companionable  grace.  To  those  men  who 
dreamed  this  figure,  to  us  who  look  upon  her  and 
worship,  the  dominion  of  Time  is  a  forgotten 
thing  ;  we  ask  no  pity  for  our  human  woes  ;  they 
have  passed,  they  have  crumbled :  she  gives  us  a 
better  gift  than  pity,  insight  into  the  hidden  things 
of  life  and  of  art ;  she  wings  with  hope,  if  with 
stern  hope,  our  dream  of  beauty.  The  mosaics  on 
the  west  wall  of  the  cathedral  have  the  same  stern 
character,  with  less  of  beauty  than  the  Madonna 
of  the  apse :  the  great  angels  on  either  side  the 
weird  central  Christ  in  the  upper  division  have  a 
strangely  oriental  effect.  They  might  be  Indian 
gods.  They  hold  the  Christian  symbols,  but  with 
how  abstracted,  how  remote  a  gaze  they  look  out 
from  their  aureoles  !  They  are  at  one  with  the 
noble  simplicity  and  strength  and  greatness  of  the 
spirit  of  the  building  they  adorn.  Somehow  they 
seem  to  us  the  oldest  thing  within  it ;  we  begin  to 
be  drawn  by  them  into  mysteries  older  than  the 
caves  of  Greece  whence  the  pillars  of  this  duomo 
came  ;  we  begin  to  share  their  watch  over  a  vast 
desert  where  all  the  faiths  and  imaginings  of  men 
may  move  and  mingle,  and  find  a  common  altar 
under  the  dome  of  the  evening  sky. 
3  [  33  ] 


VENICE 

Greater  than  Torcello,  and  still  maintaining,  as 
near  neighbour  to  Venice,  something  of  its  old 
activities,  Murano  lives,  none  the  less,  a  phantom 
life.  We  would  choose,  as  a  fitting  atmosphere 
for  Murano,  a  day  of  delicate  lights  and  pale, 
lucent  water,  with  faint  fine  tints  within  the  water 
and  the  sky :  a  day  of  the  falling  year,  not  expec- 
tant, only  acceptant,  pausing  in  the  dim  quiet  of 
its  decay.  Even  the  hot  sunshine,  though  it  ir- 
radiates the  features  of  Murano,  cannot  penetrate 
to  that  spent  heart.  The  marvellous  fascination 
of  its  Grand  Canal,  with  its  swift  and  unaccus- 
tomed current  of  blue  waters,  cannot  draw  us  from 
the  sadness,  or  disperse  the  spectral  melancholy 
which  invades  the  spirit  and  surrounds  it  as  an  at- 
mosphere. The  sun  infects  the  dirty  children 
with  a  desire  to  shine,  and  prompts  somersaults  for 
a  soldino ;  but  the  weary  women,  the  old,  crouch- 
ing men,  still  creep  about  the  fondamenta  imper- 
vious to  his  rays.  Murano  is  not  less  disinherited, 
not  less  phantasmal,  because  the  daylight  comes  to 
pierce  the  semblance  of  her  life.  It  is  strangely 
invasive  and  possessing,  this  sentiment  of  a  life 
outlived,  a  body  whose  soul  is  fled.  The  long 
vine  gardens  that  spread  to  the  lagoon,  dispos- 
sessed, but  still  apparently  doing  service  and  rich 
in  vegetables  and  fruit,  seem  as  if  they  would  per- 

[  34  ]    ' 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

suade  us  of  their  reality ;  but  their  walls  are 
ruined,  their  ways  are  low  and  narrow ;  it  was  not 
thus  they  looked  when  Bembo  and  Navagero 
paced  here  in  an  earthly  paradise,  a  haunt  of 
nymphs  and  demigods.  The  living  population  of 
Murano  seerns  to  have  fallen  under  the  same  spell. 
If  we  bestow  on  them  more  than  a  cursory  glance 
as  we  pass  along  the  fondamenta,  we  seem  to 
detect  in  their  faces  an  indescribable  sense  of 
weariness  and  sorrow  and  decay.  There  seem 
many  old  among  them,  and  on  the  young  toil  and 
privation  have  already  laid  their  hand.  The 
strange  habitual  chant  of  priest  and  women  and 
young  girls,  going  up  from  tired  nerveless  throats 
in  the  twilight  of  San  Pietro  Martire,  seemed 
a  symbol  of  the  voice  of  Murano,  melancholy, 
mechanical,  the  phantom  of  a  voice  —  an  echo 
struck  with  the  hand  or  by  a  breath  of  wind 
from  a  fallen  instrument,  an  instrument  that  has 
lost  its  virtue  and  its  ring,  an  instrument  unstrung. 
We  have  seen  Murano  in  festa.  She  can  pay  her 
tribute  to  free  Italy.  Ponte  Lungo  was  hung 
with  lamps,  and  the  desolate  campi  had  their 
share  in  the  illumination.  In  the  very  piazza  of 
San  Donate  a  hawker  was  winding  elastic  strings 
of  golden  treacle,  while  women  and  children  in 
gay  dresses  hurried  to  and  fro.  In  another  square, 

[  35  ] 


VENICE 

under  the  clock  tower,  a  demagogue  addressed  the 
crowd  excitedly :  there  was  plentiful  noise,  plen- 
tiful determination  to  enjoy.  The  campanile 
looked  down  and  wondered.  O  Roma  o  morte. 
Had  it  been  Rome  then  and  not  death  ?  Rome  and 
freedom,  freedom  to  destroy  the  historic  and  the 
old  ?  It  was  a  grand  triumph,  a  triumph  justly 
commemorated,  and  yet  the  conquerors  themselves 
might  grieve  over  the  Italy  of  to-day.  Mazzini,  we 
know,  struck  a  note  of  melancholy  out  of  that  proud 
exultation.  Italy,  if  she  lives,  lives  among  ruins, 
and  for  the  most  part  she  is  careless  of  her  decay. 

Murano,  like  Torcello,  is  bound  by  one  glori- 
ous link  with  her  Byzantine  past,  and  this  one 
of  the  noblest  monuments,  not  of  the  lagoons 
only,  but  of  all  Italy ;  simple,  stern,  august.  San 
Donate  has  not,  indeed,  gone  unscathed  by  time, 
nor  by  modernity.  The  wonders  of  its  pavement 
are  becoming  blackened  and  obscured ;  holes  are 
being  worn  in  it,  missing  cubes  leave  gaps  in  the 
design.  In  winter  it  is  constantly  flooded  by 
high  tide,  and  even  in  other  seasons  the  damp  is 
ruining  a  pavement  which  rivals,  if  it  does  not 
surpass,  that  of  San  Marco.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  beauty  of  the  designs,  the  exquisite 
harmonies  of  its  precious  marbles,  porphyry  and 
verd-antique,  Verona,  serpentine  and  marmo  greco, 

[  36  ] 


THE  CLOCK  TOWER. 


PHANTOMS   OF   THE   LAGOONS 

with  noble  masses  of  colour  among  the  smaller 
fragments,  and  a  most  precious  gem  of  chalcedony, 
which,  if  we  may  believe  the  poor  old  sacristan, 
whose  complaints  concerning  his  precious  floor 
wake  no  response,  an  English  visitor  would  have 
wished  to  steal.  The  sacristan  can  show  to  all 
who  will  lament  with  him  the  ruin  wrought  by 
sacrilegious  man.  But  no  profane  hand  has  dared  to 
raise  itself  against  the  Madonna  of  the  apse.  This 
Madonna  of  San  Donato  is  even  grander,  more 
august,  than  that  other  who  in  Torcello  conquers 
Time,  and  surely  it  is  not  without  reason  that  we 
have  called  her  the  goddess  of  the  lagoons.  In 
perfect  aloofness  and  secrecy  she  stands,  but  with 
luminous  revelation  in  her  strangely  significant 
eyes ;  her  white  hands  uplifted,  her  white  face 
shining  out  of  the  darkness,  the  long,  straight 
folds  of  her  dark  robe  worked  with  gold,  her  feet 
resting,  it  seems,  upon  a  golden  fire.  The  gaze 
of  this  marvellous  Madonna  seems  to  comprehend 
the  world.  She  is  a  sphinx  who  holds  the  key  of 
every  mystery.  In  her  presence  we  are  overcome 
by  the  impulse  to  kneel  and  worship.  She  is  not, 
like  many  Byzantine  Madonnas,  grotesque,  for- 
bidding in  her  immensity,  in  her  aloofness ;  for 
even  while  she  rebukes  and  subdues  our  littleness 
of  soul,  she  draws  all  our  senses  as  a  being  of  abso- 

[  39  ] 


VENICE 

lute,  inexplicable  beauty.  She  holds  us  rapt  and 
will  not  let  us  go.  The  memory  of  the  Duomo 
of  San  Donato  is  concentrated  in  the  single  magi- 
cal figure  of  her  Madonna,  leaning  in  benediction 
from  the  golden  apse. 

Murano  is  full  of  corners  where  Gothic  and  By- 
zantine have  combined  to  beautify  portico,  pillar 
and  arch.  In  the  Asilo  dei  Vecchii  are  two  of  the 
most  ancient  fireplaces  known  in  Venice,  and  at 
Venice  fireplaces  were  very  early  in  use.  One  is  a 
deep  square  hollowed  in  the  wall,  and  furnished 
with  doors  that  shut  upon  it  like  a  panelling, 
while  two  little  windows,  as  usual,  open  out  be- 
hind. The  other  projects  into  the  room,  with 
sloping  roof  and  little  seats  within  on  either  side. 
Murano,  it  is  well  known,  was  the  pleasure-ground 
of  the  Venetians  in  happier  days ;  it  was  here  that 
the  men  of  the  Great  Republic  had  their  gardens 
elect  for  solace  and  for  beauty.  But  with  the  Re- 
public Murano  fell ;  the  patrimonies  of  the  patri- 
cians were  scattered  —  gradually  their  palaces  were 
snatched  away,  piece  by  piece,  and  fell  into  irre- 
coverable ruin.  One  only  now  retains  some  image 
of  its  former  splendour,  the  famous  Ca  da  Mula, 
upon  the  fine  sweep  of  the  Grand  Canal.  The 
Madonna  of  San  Donato  has  looked  down  on  the 
spoliation  of  her  temple ;  she  still  looks  on  its 

[  40  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF    THE    LAGOONS 

slow  decay.  She  has  shared  the  proud  sorrows  of 
the  campanile ;  in  colloquy  through  the  night 
what  may  he  not  have  told  of  the  passing  of  Mu- 
rano  ?  They  have  little,  these  solemn  guardians  of 
the  past,  in  common  with  the  exuberant  Renais- 
sance, but  perhaps  a  common  fate,  the  unifying  hand 
of  Time,  may  have  bound  their  spirits  in  a  confra- 
ternity of  grief.  The  heart  of  the  old  campanile 
would  be  stirred  with  pity  for  the  fate  of  those  de- 
serted palaces,  the  sublime  Madonna  would  turn  an 
eye  not  of  scorn  but  of  sorrow  on  the  fading  forms 
of  those  radiant  women,  so  splendid  on  the  frescoed 
palace  fronts,  so  alluring  in  the  smooth  mirror  of 
the  canal.  The  work  of  the  spoiler,  so  far  as  it 
was  a  work  of  violence,  of  a  human  spoiler,  is 
done  ;  but  the  slower  work  of  nature  still  proceeds. 
Long  before  Murano  became  a  Venetian  pleasure- 
ground,  she  had  been  famous  for  her  painters,  for 
her  ships,  for  her  furnaces.  Like  Torcello,  she 
sent  vessels  to  the  triumph  of  the  Doge  Lorenzo 
Tiepolo,  and  she  was  conspicuous  among  the 
others,  as  da  Canale  says :  "  For  you  must  know 
that  those  of  Murano  had  on  their  vessels  living 
cocks,  so  that  they  might  be  known  and  whence 
they  came. "  Molmenti  thinks  that  Carpaccio 
himself  belonged  to  a  shipbuilding  family  of  Mu- 
rano, and  this  is  the  more  interesting  in  view  of 


VENICE 

the  frequency  and  detail  of  shipping  operations  in 
his  pictures.  Murano  was  indeed  the  birthplace  of 
Venetian  art,  and  the  riches  of  its  furnaces  glow  in 
the  garments  of  those  early  painters,  Vivarini,  An- 
drea and  Quirico.  From  the  end  of  the  eleventh 
century  the  glass  works  had  begun  to  flourish  ;  by 
the  thirteenth  the  industry  was  transferred  wholly 
to  Murano.  The  legend  runs  that  a  certain  Cris- 
toforo  Briani,  hearing  from  Marco  Polo  of  the 
monopoly  of  agates,  chalcedony  and  other  precious 
stones  on  the  coast  of  Guiana,  set  about  imitating 
them.  With  Domenico  Miotto  to  help  him  he 
succeeded,  and  the  latter  carried  the  art  to  still 
greater  perfection,  which  resulted  at  last  in  the 
imitation  of  the  pearl.  In  1528  Andrea  Vidoare 
received  a  special  mariegola  or  charter  for  the  fame 
of  his  wonderful  pearls,  polished  and  variegated  by 
him  to  a  degree  unknown  before.  In  the  middle 
of  the  fifteenth  century  the  first  crystals  came  from 
the  furnaces,  and  the  following  century  was  the 
golden  period  of  the  art  —  a  period  coinciding 
with  the  greatest  patrician  glory  of  the  island.  Mu- 
rano still  burns  with  its  secular  fire,  winning  from 
the  old  world  its  secrets,  the  old,  wise  world  that 
worshipped  fire,  to  fuse  them  once  more  in  its  cru- 
cible for  the  wonder  of  the  new  ;  secrets  of  crystal, 
pearl  and  ruby,  and  of  the  blue  of  the  deepest  ocean 

[  42  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

depths  or  the  impenetrable  night  sky,  imprisoning 
them  in  those  transparent  cenotaphs  in  forms  of 
infinite  harmony  and  grace.  And  it  is  not  only  in 
the  revival  of  ancient  memories  and  forgotten  mys- 
teries that  the  furnaces  of  Murano  play  their  part ; 
they  contribute  also  to  the  present  renewal  of  Ven- 
ice :  for  it  is  here  that  the  units  of  the  mosaicist's 
art  are  made.  In  Murano  is  laid  the  foundation- 
stone  of  its  success  —  the  quality  of  the  colour,  the 
depth  and  richness  of  the  gold.  The  period  of 
decadence  in  the  Venetian  arts  is  accurately  re- 
flected in  its  mosaics ;  with  the  decadence  of  con- 
ception we  note  also  the  decadence  of  colour. 
Those  hard  blatant  tones  that  characterise  the  late 
mosaics  of  San  Marco  are  records,  too  permanent, 
alas !  of  a  time  when  the  furnaces  had  lost  their 
cunning,  or  rather  when  the  master  minds  were 
blunted  and  the  secret  of  the  ancient  colourists  al- 
lowed to  lie  unquestioned  under  the  dust  of  time. 
There  is  a  humbler  department  of  the  glass 
works  which  we  must  not  pass  by.  It  lies  away 
from  the  furnaces  devoted  to  rare  and  subtle  text- 
ure and  design,  behind  San  Pietro  Martire,  among 
the  gardens :  a  manufactory  of  common  glass  for 
daily  use,  tumblers  and  water-bottles  and  other 
humble  ware.  Here  there  is  the  swift  operation 
of  machinery,  at  least  among  the  coarser  glasses, 

[  43  1 


VENICE 

and  a  noise  of  the  very  inferno  with  countless 
sweating  fiends  —  little  black-faced  grinning  boys, 
grateful  for  a  package  full  of  grapes  or  juicy  figs ; 
there  is  little  mystery  in  the  production  of  this 
coarser  glass,  or  rather  few  of  the  obvious  accesso- 
ries of  mystery,  the  delicate  slow  fashioning,  the 
infusion  of  colours.  Instead,  the  constant  noise  of 
machinery,  deafening  and  exhausting  in  its  inces- 
sant motion,  though  even  here  the  reign  of 
machinery  is  limited :  the  finer  tumblers  must  go 
a  longer  journey  to  be  filed  by  a  slower,  more 
gradual  process,  the  direct  handiwork  of  man. 
There  is  an  upper  circle  to  which  we  gladly  pass 
from  this  inferno,  almost  a  paradise  if  we  contrast 
it  with  the  turmoil  and  heat  below  ;  to  reach  it  we 
pass  by  the  troughs  of  grey  sand  which  all  day 
men  are  trampling  with  the  soles  of  their  bare 
feet,  to  mould  into  fit  temper  for  the  furnace. 
The  floor  of  the  room  above  is  covered  and  the 
walls  lined  with  strange  creations  of  cold,  grey 
earth,  fashioned  by  hand,  roll  after  roll  of  clay, 
ungainly  forms  to  be  inhabited  by  fire.  This 
upper  attic,  with  its  company  of  mute  grey  moulds, 
opens  out  upon  the  vineyards  of  Murano,  with 
water  shimmering  through  the  long  golden  alleys, 
and  the  city  visible  beyond.  The  gardens  of  the 
Palazzo  da  Mula  and  of  San  Cipriano  are  beside 

[  44  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

us.  The  bustle  of  the  new  world  has  invaded  the 
peaceful  seclusion  of  a  spot  once  sacred  to  the 
student  aristocracy  of  Venice. 

For  this  island,  famed  for  so  glorious  an  indus- 
try, was  beloved  and  honoured  by  the  noblest 
of  Venetian  names,  Trifone  Gabriele  and  Pietro 
Bembo  and  Andrea  Navagero.  Here  Navagero 
founded  one  of  the  first  botanic  gardens  of  Europe 
—  "a  terrestrial  paradise,  a  place  of  nymphs  and 
demigods  "  ;  here  Gabriele  wandered  for  hours 
under  the  thick  vine  pergola  walled  with  jessamine 
against  the  sun.  And  it  was  not  only  as  a  tem- 
porary pleasure-ground  that  they  loved  Murano : 
they  clung  to  it  as  their  resting-place  in  death. 
Bernardo  Giustiniani  desired  to  be  buried  by  his 
palace,  at  the  foot  of  Ponte  Lungo,  and  Andrea 
Navagero  in  the  church  of  San  Martino  in  the 
same  quarter  where  his  house  was  built.  Murano 
was  honoured  by  at  least  one  royal  guest.  It  was 
here  that  Henry  III  of  France,  on  his  passage 
through  Venice  from  Polonia,  was  given  his  first 
lodging,  and  the  palace  which  witnessed  the  first 
transports  of  this  rapturous  monarch,  the  palace  of 
Bartolomeo  Capello,  still  exists,  close  beside  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  at  the  extreme 
western  point  of  the  city.  It  would  thus  form 
the  most  convenient  landing-place,  besides  com- 

[  45  1 


VENICE 

manding  a  view  of  extreme  beauty ;  to  the  left, 
the  fine  torrent-like  sweep  of  the  chief  canal,  with 
the  noble  Ca  da  Mula  a  little  lower  on  the  opposite 
bank  and  its  gardens  immediately  over  the  water ; 
Venice  filling  the  horizon  clear  across  the  lagoon, 
where  the  south  curve  of  Murano  ends  to-day  in  a 
meadow  of  rough  grass  and  fragrant  herbs ;  to  the 
right  the  Convent  of  the  Angeli,  leading  on  the 
eye  across  the  lagoon  to  the  mainland  and  the  dis- 
tant mountains  beyond.  Traces  of  fresco  remain 
on  the  outer  walls  of  the  palazzo,  and  the  upper 
hall  still  stretches  through  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  house.  It  is  on  the  balcony  of  this  central 
hall  that  Henry  must  have  stood  when  he  appeared 
before  dinner  to  gratify  the  crowds  on  the  fonda- 
menta  and  in  the  boats  below.  The  view  of 
Venice  in  the  evening  light  is  exquisitely  lovely, 
with  the  lagoon  spread  like  a  mirror  to  reflect  the 
delicate  opaline  of  the  sunset  sky.  In  this  hall 
hung  with  cloth  of  gold  and  cremosine,  and  per- 
haps with  the  colours  of  Veronese,  looking  over  a 
paradise  of  gardens  and  water  to  the  immortal  city, 
Henry  kept  his  court,  received  the  legates  from 
the  Pope  and  said  a  thousand  graceful  things  about 
His  Holiness,  rejoiced  the  natives  by  his  noble 
bearing,  his  perfumed  gloves,  his  frank  pleasure  in 
their  tribute,  his  decision  to  go  on  foot  to  the 

[  46  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

Angeli  to  morning  Mass.  Thus  was  he  initiated 
to  the  magical  city  and  its  enchantments  by  that 
wise  providence  of  the  Venetians,  who  made  their 
islands  always  stepping-stones,  outer  courts  of  the 
central  shrine,  where  their  pilgrim  must  pause 
awhile  to  shake  the  dust  of  the  mainland  off  his 
feet,  that  the  spell  might  permeate  his  being  and 
fill  his  senses  with  desire. 

The  fondamenta  below  Henry's  palace,  leading  to 
the  church  of  the  Angeli,  is  one  of  the  most  deso- 
late in  Murano  ;  the  wide  green  campo  of  the  cem- 
etery which  opens  from  it  is  deserted  and  bare,  save 
for  a  few  fowls  that  humbly  commemorate  the  proud 
old  shield.  The  dirt  of  the  children  is  indescrib- 
able, as  they  press  close  begging  a  soldino.  But  their 
dirt  is  dearer  to  them.  A  bargain  for  a  washed  face, 
even  when  the  reward  rings  cheerily  on  the  pave- 
ment, brings  no  response  but  laughter  and  surprise. 
We  are  reminded  by  contrast  of  the  tribute  of  An- 

9 

drea  Calmo,  a  popular  poet  of  the  sixteenth  century : 

E  voio  tanto  bene  a  quel  Muran, 
Che,  per  diroelo  certo  in  veritae, 
Son  in  pensier  de  vender  le  mie  intrae. 
E  venir  la  per  starmene  pi  san. 
Quei  horti  a  pieni  de  herbe  uliose 
E  quel  canal  cusi  chiaro  e  pulio 
Con  quelle  belle  casi  si  aierose, 
Con  tante  creature  che  par  riose 
Liogo  che  Pha  stampao  Domenedio. 

[  47  1 


VENICE 

(And  I  wish  so  well  to  that  Murano,  that  to  tell 
you  the  sober  truth  I  am  thinking  of  selling  my 
takings  and  coming  there  to  live  more  healthily. 
The  gardens  there  are  so  full  of  olive  trees,  and 
the  canal  so  clear  and  clean,  the  houses  so  beautiful 
and  so  airy,  with  so  many  fair  creatures  that  it 
seems  a  place  of  joy  stamped  by  the  Lord  God.) 
Beside  the  Ca  da  Mula,  hidden  among  some  out- 
buildings, from  which  it  has  in  the  last  years  been 
partially  released,  is  one  of  Murano' s  finest  treas- 
ures, the  convent  front  of  San  Cipriano,  which  in 
the  ninth  century,  when  Malamocco  was  on  the 
point  of  submersion,  was  brought  here  by  order 
of  Ordelafo  Faliero.  Andrea  Dandolo  dates  the 
building  from  88 1  ;  it  was  rebuilt  in  1109  and 
restored  in  1605,  and  its  exquisite  fa9ade,  still 
bearing  the  stamp  of  several  ages,  freed  somewhat 
from  the  earth  about  its  base,  stands  up  nobly 
from  the  tangled  garden  around  it.  The  central 
arch  is  outlined  with  the  finest  Byzantine  tracery 
lined  with  Gothic,  surrounded  once  with  coloured 
marbles  of  which  only  fragments  now  remain, 
and  above  this  is  a  frieze  of  the  best  Roman  of 
the  Renaissance:  slender  columns,  some  Byzantine, 
some  Gothic,  adorn  it  on  either  side,  and  fantastic 
Byzantine  symbols  are  sculptured  in  the  stone  discs 
that  are  embedded  in  the  walls  between  the  arches 

[  48  ] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE    LAGOONS 

of  the  cloister.  A  campanula  on  the  ruined  wall 
to  the  left  of  the  arch  stands  out  clear  and  pale 
against  the  brick  building  behind,  where  once  the 
cloister  opened  out,  an  exquisite  harmony  of  lav- 
ender and  rose.  Fragmentary  though  it  is,  this 
fa9ade  of  the  famous  monastery  is  one  of  the  most 
precious  relics  of  the  islands  of  the  lagoons. 

There  is  an  island  where  we  cannot  think  of 
death,  where  decay  dare  not  come ;  though  the 
water  plants  smell  faint  upon  its  shores,  and 
the  cypresses  that  clothe  it  rise  black  against  the 
sky.  It  is  the  island  that  sheltered  one  of  the 
most  joyful  spirits  that  has  ever  walked  the  world, 
the  island  where  the  larks  once  sang  in  such 
prolonged  impulsive  harmony  of  joy  that  the 
sound  of  their  singing  has  never  passed  away ;  it 
may  seem  to  lie  silent  as  a  veil  upon  the  water, 
but  the  tremor  of  the  sunshine  will  waken  it  to 
renewed  harmonies  of  delight  —  San  Francesco  del 
Deserto.  We  rejoice  to  think  that  the  Poverello 
set  foot  in  the  lagoons,  that  he  left  here  in  the 
lonely  waters  the  blossom  of  his  love.  St.  Francis 
of  the  Desert  can  wake  no  thoughts  of  melan- 
choly, and  indeed  this  is  no  deserted  place,  nor  in 
the  morning  of  his  coming,  after  the  night  of 
storm,  can  it  have  seemed  a  place  of  desolation; 
for  nothing  is  more  wonderful,  more  prodigally 

<•  [  49  ] 


VENICE 

full  of  the  mysterious  rapture  of  life,  than  the 
flowing  in  of  day  upon  the  lagoons  after  the 
tumult  of  rain  and  hurricane.  They  say  that  St. 
Francis,  coming  from  the  Holy  Land  on  a  Ven- 
etian ship,  was  driven  by  the  storm  to  cast  anchor 
near  Torcello  ;  that  as  he  prayed,  the  storm  sub- 
sided, and  a  great  calm  fell  on  the  lagoon.  Then 
as  the  Poverello  set  foot  upon  this  cypress-covered 
shore,  the  sun  came  out  —  the  sun  of  the  early 
summer  dawn  —  and  shone  through  the  dripping 
branches  of  the  cypresses,  covering  them  with 
glistening  crystals,  and  shone  on  the  damp  feath- 
ered creatures  among  the  branches  and  on  the 
larks  among  the  reedy  grass,  and  as  he  shone  a 
choir  of  voices  woke  in  the  lonely  island  and 
a  chorus  of  welcome  burst  from  ten  thousand 
throats.  And  the  sun  shone  in  the  heart  of  St. 
Francis  also,  and  it  overflowed  with  joy ;  and  St. 
Francis  said  to  his  companion,  "  The  little  birds, 
our  brothers,  praise  their  Creator  with  joy ;  and 
we  also  as  we  walk  in  the  midst  of  them  —  let  us 
sing  the  praises  of  God."  And  then  as  St.  Bona- 
ventura  relates  the  legend,  the  birds  sang  so  clam- 
orously on  the  branches  that  St.  Francis  had  to 
entreat  their  silence  till  he  had  sung  the  Lauds ; 
but  we  may  read  another  story  if  we  will,  and  say 
that  the  dewy  matin  song  of  the  birds  was  not  so 

[50] 


PHANTOMS   OF   THE    LAGOONS 

clamorous  as  to  disturb  the  quiet  morning  gladness 
of  the  Poverello,  that  they  sang  together  in  the 
dawn.  San  Francesco  del  Deserto  is  not  an  island 
of  sorrow.  In  the  little  convent  inhabited  still  by 
a  few  quiet  Franciscans,  the  narrow  gloomy  corner 
is  to  be  seen  which  they  name  St.  Francis's  bed : 
in  the  convent  garden  there  rises  a  stone  memorial 
round  the  tree  that  flowered  from  the  Saint's 
planted  staff.  We  know  these  familiar  symbols 
of  the  Franciscan  convents :  the  brothers  cling  to 
them  as  to  some  fragmentary  testament  that  their 
eyes  can  read  and  their  hand  grasp  when  the  living 
spirit  has  fled  away  ;  everywhere  among  the  moun- 
tain or  the  valley  solitudes  where  St.  Francis  dwelt, 
the  same  dark  relics  of  that  luminous  spirit  are  to 
be  found,  the  story  even  of  birds  banished  for  ever 
by  the  command  of  that  prince  of  singers,  as  if 
his  own  voice  chanting  eternal  litanies  could  be  his 
sole  delight.  They  are  strange  stories ;  we  pass 
them  by,  and  go  out  to  find  the  Poverello  where  the 
cones  of  the  cypresses  gleam  silver-grey  against  the 
blue.  His  spirit  has  taken  happy  root  among 
the  waters  of  the  lagoons;  a  new  joy  and  glory  is 
added  to  the  mountains  as  they  rise  in  the  calm 
dawn,  clear  and  luminous  from  the  departing  rain 
cloud ;  there  is  joy  and  peace  in  the  raised  grass 
walk  between  the  cypress  trees ;  the  island  is 


VENICE 

indeed  a  place  of  life  and  not  of  death  for  those 
who  have  felt  the  suffering  and  the  joy  of  love,, 
and  who  worship  beauty  in  their  hearts. 

O  Beata  Solitude, 
O  Sola  Beatitude. 

There  are  still  solitudes  in  the  desert  of  the  la- 
goon where  some  of  us  have  dreamed  of  beginning 
a  new  day.  In  the  hour  when  the  last  gold  has 
faded  from  the  sun-path  —  when  those  dancing 
gems  he  flings  to  leap  and  sport  upon  the  water 
have  been  slowly  gathered  in,  when  the  churches 
and  palaces  of  the  city  are  folded  under  one  soft 
clinging  veil,  which  softens  the  outline  that  it  does 
not  obscure,  when  Torcello  and  Burano  lean  in 
pallid  solitude  above  the  level  disc  of  the  marsh, 
and  the  Lido  lies  like  a  sea-serpent  coiled  on  itself, 
its  spires  reflected  in  the  motionless  mirror  far  south 
to  Chioggia  —  they  steal  out,  these  island  phan- 
toms, faint,  alluring,  upon  the  still  mosaic  of  the 
lagoon,  like  black  pearls  in  that  shell-like  surface 
of  tenderest  azure  and  rose.  Shall  we  not  dare  to 
wander  among  those  lovely  paths,  those  dimly  burn- 
ing gems  ?  None  visits  them,  unless  it  be  the  gol- 
den stars  and  the  dreaming  lover  of  Endymion  r 
their  roof  is  the  broad  rainbow  spread  above  them 
by  the  setting  sun.  They  seem  sometimes  to  wel- 

[  52] 


PHANTOMS    OF   THE   LAGOONS 

come  a  spirit  that  should  come  and  dwell  among 
them  silently ;  one  that  should  tread  them  with 
loving  reverence  and  quiet  hope,  seeking  to  set  free 
the  fantasies  with  which  earth  has  stored  it,  but 
which  no  power  of  earth  may  help  it  to  disburden. 


[  53  1 


Chapter  Cfjree 

THE  NUPTIALS  OF  VENICE 

UNTIL  the  fall  of  the  Venetian  Republic 
the  rite  of  the  Sposalizio  del  Mare,  the 
wedding  of  Venice  with  the  sea,  continued 
to  be  celebrated  annually  at  the  feast  of  the  Ascen- 
sion. Long  after  the  fruits  of  the  espousal  had 
been  gathered,  when  its  renewal  had  become  no 
more  than  a  ceremonious  display,  there  stirred  a 
pulse  of  present  life  in  the  embrace  ;  and  in  a  sense, 
the  significance  of  the  ceremony  never  can  be  lost 
while  one  stone  remains  upon  another  in  the  city 
of  the  sea. 

For  the  earliest  celebration  of  the  nuptials  there 
was  need  of  no  golden  Bucintoro,  no  feast  of  red 
wine  and  chestnuts,  no  damask  roses  in  a  silver 
cup,  not  so  much  as  a  ring  to  seal  the  bond.  For 
it  was  no  vaunt  of  sovereignty ;  it  was  a  humble 
oblation,  a  prayer  to  the  Creator  that  His  creature 
might  be  calm  and  tranquil  to  all  who  travelled 
over  it,  an  oblation  to  the  creature  that  it  might 
be  pleased  to  assist  the  gracious  and  pacific  work 
of  its  Creator.  The  regal  ceremony  of  later  times 

[  54  ] 


THE   NUPTIALS   OF   VENICE 

was  inaugurated  by  the  Doge  Pietro  Orseolo  II 
who,  having  largely  increased  the  sea  dominion  of 
Venice  and  made  himself  lord  of  the  Adriatic, 
welded  his  achievement  into  the  fabric  of  the  state 
by  the  ceremony  of  the  espousal.  The  ring  was 
not  introduced  till  the  year  1 1 77,  when  Pope  Alex- 
ander III,  being  present  at  the  festival,  bestowed  it 
on  the  Doge,  as  token  of  the  papal  sanction  of  the 
ceremony,  with  the  words,  "  Receive  it  as  pledge 
of  the  sovereignty  that  you  and  your  successors 
shall  maintain  over  the  sea."  But  the  true  im- 
portance of  the  festival,  whether  in  its  primitive 
form  or  in  its  later  elaboration,  is  the  development 
of  Venetian  policy  which  it  signified  —  a  develop- 
ment which,  for  the  purposes  of  this  chapter,  will 
best  be  considered  in  relation  to  events  separated  by 
nearly  two  centuries,  but  united  in  their  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  growing  importance  of  Venice  on 
the  waters.  The  first  is  Pietro  Orseolo's  Dalma- 
tian campaign,  followed  in  i  oo  I  by  the  secret  visit 
of  the  German  Emperor  Otho  III,  and  the  second 
the  famous  concordat  of  Pope  Alexander  III  and 
the  Emperor  Frederick  Barbarossa,  concluded  under 
the  auspices  of  Venetian  statecraft  in  1 1 77. 

Pietro  Orseolo  II  appears  as  one  of  the  most 
potent  interpreters  of  the  Venetian  spirit.  He 
combined  qualities  which  enabled  him  to  gather 

[  55  ] 


VENICE 

together  the  threads  which  the  genius  of  Venice 
and  the  exigencies  of  her  position  were  weaving, 
and  to  fashion  from  them  a  substantial  web  on 
which  her  industry  might  operate.  He  was  a 
soldier,  a  great  statesman  and  a  patriot.  All  the 
subtlety,  all  the  ambition,  all  the  dreams  of  glory 
with  which  his  potent  and  spacious  mind  was 
endowed,  were  at  his  country's  service,  and  the 
material  in  which  he  had  to  work  was  plastic  to 
his  touch.  Venice  lay  midway  between  the  king- 
doms of  the  East  and  West,  and  from  the  earliest 
times  this  fact  had  determined  her  importance : 
she  might  rise  to  greatness  or  she  might  be  anni- 
hilated ;  she  could  not  be  ignored.  The  Venice 
of  Orseolo  was  instinct  with  vitality  and  teeming 
with  energies,  but  she  was  divided  against  herself. 
The  foundations  of  her  greatness  were  already 
laid,  but  her  general  aim  and  tendency  were  not 
determined.  She  was  in  need  of  a  leader  of  com- 
manding mind  and  capacious  imagination,  who 
could  envisage  her  future,  and  who  should  possess 
the  power  of  inspiring  others  with  confidence  in 
his  dreams.  Such  a  man  was  Pietro  Orseolo  II. 
Venice  had  been  threatened  with  destruction  by 
the  division  of  the  two  interests  which,  inter- 
woven, were  the  basis  of  her  power.  Before  the 
final  settlement  at  Rialto  she  had  been  torn  hither 

[  56  ] 


RIVA  DEGLI   SCHIAVONI. 


THE   NUPTIALS   OF   VENICE 

ana  thither  by  the  factions  of  the  East  and  West, 
the  party  favouring  Constantinople  and  the  party 
favouring  the  Prankish  King ;  and  at  any  moment 
still  the  Doge's  policy  might  be  wrecked  by  the 
rivalries  of  the  two  parties,  if  he  proved  lacking  in 
insight  or  capacity  for  uniting  in  his  service  the 
interests  of  both. 

For  some  time  Dalmatia  had  been  a  thorn  in 
the  side  of  Venice,  a  refuge  for  the  disloyal,  and, 
through  the  agency  of  the  hordes  of  pirates  infest- 
ing the  coast,  a  real  menace  to  her  commerce. 
Venice  had  attempted  to  purchase  immunity  from 
the  pirates  by  payment  of  an  annual  indemnity. 
Orseolo  decided  at  once  to  put  an  end  to  this  pay- 
ment, but  he  realised  that  the  price  of  the  decision 
was  a  foothold  in  Dalmatia  that  would  need  to  be 
obtained  by  force  of  arms.  For  this  end  it  was 
necessary  to  secure  harmony  within  the  city  itself, 
and,  knowing  this,  he  exercised  his  powers  to  ob- 
tain approval  of  his  expedition  from  the  authori- 
ties of  East  and  of  West,  from  the  Emperors  of 
Germany  and  Byzantium.  He  was  successful  in 
this,  and  circumstances  combined  further  to  aid 
his  designs.  The  Croatians  and  Narentines,  by 
wreaking  on  Northern  Dalmatia  their  anger  at 
the  loss  of  the  Venetian  indemnity,  had  prepared 
the  minds  of  the  Dalmatians  to  look  on  the  pros- 

[  59  ] 


VENICE 

pect  of  Venetian  supremacy  as  one  of  release  rather 
than  of  subjugation.  It  is  said  that  they  even 
went  so  far  as  to  send  a  message  to  Orseolo  en- 
couraging his  coming.  Their  province  was  nomi- 
nally under  the  Emperor  of  Byzantium,  but  their 
overlord  had  decided  to  look  favourably  on  a 
means  of  securing  peace  and  safe  passage  to  his 
province  at  so  small  an  expense  to  himself.  Orse- 
olo set  sail  on  Ascension  Day,  after  a  service  in 
the  Cathedral  of  Olivolo  (now  San  Pietro  di  Cas- 
tello),  fortified  by  the  good  will  of  East  and  of 
West,  and  the  united  acclamations  of  all  parties 
in  Venice.  Pride  and  vigorous  hope  must  have 
swelled  the  hearts  of  these  warriors.  It  was 
summer,  and  their  songs  must  have  travelled  across 
the  dazzling  blue  of  the  great  basin  of  St.  Mark, 
and  echoed  and  re-echoed  far  out  on  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  lagoon.  Triumph  was  anticipated, 
and  triumph  was  their  portion.  Orseolo's  expedi- 
tion was  little  less  than  a  triumphal  progress ;  the 
coast  towns  of  Dalmatia  from  Zara  to  Ragusa  ren- 
dered him  their  homage.  A  new  and  immensely 
rich  province  was  acquired  by  Venice,  and  the 
title  of  Duke  of  Dalmatia  accorded  to  himself. 
Soon  after  Orseolo's  return  from  this  campaign, 
Venice,  unknown  to  herself,  was  to  receive  the 
homage  of  one  of  the  emperors  she  had  made  it 

[  60  ] 


THE    NUPTIALS    OF   VENICE 

her  business  to  propitiate.  There  is  something 
that  stirs  the  imagination  in  this  secret  visit  of 
Otho  III  to  the  Doge.  According  to  the  ingenu- 
ous account  of  John  the  Deacon,  Venetian  am- 
bassador at  the  Emperor's  court,  it  was  merely 
one  of  those  visits  of  princely  compliment  which 
the  age  knew  so  well  how  to  contrive,  and  loved 
so  well  to  recount — a  visit  in  disguise  for  humil- 
ity or  greater  freedom,  like  that  of  St.  Louis  to 
Brother  Giles  at  Perugia,  where  host  and  guest 
embrace  in  fellowship  too  deep  for  words.  The 
Emperor,  John  the  Deacon  tells  us,  was  over- 
come with  admiration  of  Orseolo's  achievements 
in  Dalmatia,  and  filled  with  longing  to  see  so 
great  a  man,  and  the  chronicler  was  despatched 
to  Venice  to  arrange  a  meeting.  The  Doge, 
while  acknowledging  the  compliment  of  Otho's 
message,  could  not  believe  in  its  reality,  and  con- 
sequently kept  his  own  counsel  about  it  —  "tacitus 
sibi  in  corde  scrvabat."  However,  when  Otho  on 
his  travels  had  come  down  to  Ravenna  for  Lent, 
John  the  Deacon  was  again  despatched,  and  this 
time  from  Doge  to  Emperor. 

It  was  ultimately  arranged  that  after  the  Easter 
celebration  Otho  with  a  handful  of  followers 
should  repair,  under  pretext  of  a  "spring-cure," 
to  the  abbey  of  Santa  Maria  in  the  isle  of  Pom- 

[  61  ] 


VENICE 

posa  at  the  mouth  of  the  Po.  He  pretended  to 
be  taking  up  his  quarters  here  for  several  days,  but 
at  nightfall  he  secretly  embarked  in  a  small  boat 
prepared  by  John  the  Deacon,  and  set  sail  with 
him  and  six  followers  for  Venice.  All  that 
night  and  all  the  following  day  the  little  boat 
battled  with  the  tempest,  and  the  storm  was  still 
unabated  the  next  evening,  when  it  put  in  at  the 
island  of  San  Servolo  and  found  itself  harboured 
at  last  in  the  waters  of  St.  Mark.  Venice  knew 
nothing  of  this  arrival ;  her  royal  guest  had  taken 
her  unawares,  and  her  waterways  had  prepared 
him  no  welcome.  We  may  picture  the  anxiety 
of  Orseolo,  alone  with  the  secret  of  his  expected 
guest,  on  the  island  of  San  Servolo.  The  journey 
may  well  have  been  perilous  for  so  small  a  boat 
even  within  the  sheltering  wall  of  the  Lido,  and 
we  may  imagine  his  relief  when  it  could  at  last 
be  descried  beating  towards  the  island  through 
the  tempestuous  waters  of  the  lagoon.  In  im- 
penetrable night,  concealed  from  one  another's 
eyes  by  the  thick  darkness,  Emperor  and  Doge 
embraced.  Otho  was  invited  to  rest  for  an  hour 
or  two  at  the  convent  of  San  Zaccaria,  but  he 
repaired  before  dawn  to  the  Ducal  Palace  and  the 
lodging  made  ready  for  him  in  the  eastern  tower. 
There  is  a  fascination  in  attempting  to  imagine 

[  62  ] 


THE   NUPTIALS   OF   VENICE 

the  two  sovereigns  moving  amid  the  shadows  of 
Venetian  night,  in  thinking  of  the  Emperor 
watching  from  the  vantage  of  his  tower  for  day- 
break over  the  city.  There  are  wonders  to  be 
seen  from  this  eastern  aspect,  but  after  the  discom- 
fort of  his  voyage  to  Venice  the  royal  captive  may 
well  have  felt  a  longing  for  a  sight  of  the  city 
from  within.  It  is  all  rather  like  a  children's 
game  —  Orseolo's  feigned  first  meeting  with  an 
embassy  from  Otho,  his  inquiry  as  to  the  Em- 
peror's health  and  whereabouts,  and  the  public 
dinner  with  the  ambassadors.  Venice  is  robbed 
of  a  pageant,  and  one  most  dear  to  her,  the  feting 
of  a  royal  guest;  the  guest  is  deprived  of  all 
festivities  beyond  a  christening  of  the  Doge's 
daughter ;  yet  the  pleasurable  excitement  of  John 
the  chronicler  communicates  itself  and  disarms 
our  criticism  ;  and  it  is  not  till  gifts  have  been 
offered  and  refused  — "  ne  quis  cupiditatis  et  non 
Sancti  Marci  tuasque  dilectionis  causa  me  hac  venisse 
asserat "  —  till  tears  and  kisses  have  been  ex- 
changed, and  the  Emperor,  this  time  preceding 
his  companions  by  a  day,  has  set  sail  once  more 
for  the  island  of  Pomposa,  that  we  break  from  the 
spell  of  the  chronicler  and  begin  to  cavil  at  the 
strange  conditions  of  the  visit. 

Modern  historians  have  laid  a  probing  hand  on 

[  63  ] 


VENICE 

the  sentimentality  of  John  the  Deacon's  tale;  they 
do  not  doubt  the  kisses  or  the  tears,  but  the  un- 
paralleled eccentricity  of  secrecy  seems  to  demand 
an  urgent  motive.  Why  this  strange  coyness  of 
the  Emperor  ?  Might  he  not  have  thought  more 
to  honour  Venice  and  her  Doge  by  coming  with 
imperial  pomp  than  by  stealing  in  and  out  of  the 
triumphant  city  like  a  thief  in  the  night  ?  And 
why  did  the  persons  concerned  make  public  boast 
of  the  success  of  their  freak  immediately  after  its 
occurrence  ?  For  John  tells  us  that  when  three 
days  had  passed,  the  people  were  assembled  by  the 
Doge  at  his  palace  to  hear  of  his  achievement, 
"  and  praised  no  less  the  faith  of  the  Emperor 
than  the  skill  of  their  leader."  The  probable 
solution  of  the  various  enigmas  rather  rudely 
shatters  the  romance.  Gfrorer  lays  on  Orseolo 
the  responsibility  of  the  incognito,  attributing  it 
partly  to  a  memory  of  the  fate  that  overtook  the 
Candiani's  personal  relations  with  an  imperial 
house,  partly  to  his  desire  to  treat  with  the 
Emperor  unobserved.  He  recalls  point  by  point 
the  precautions  taken  by  Orseolo  to  preclude  Otho 
from  contact  with  other  Venetians,  and  comes  to 
the  conclusion  that  in  those  private  interviews 
in  the  tower  the  "  eternal  dreamer  "  was  feasted  on 
the  milk  and  honey  of  promises,  food  of  which 

[  64] 


THE   NUPTIALS  OF   VENICE 

no  third  person  could  have  been  allowed  to  par- 
take. "What  lies,"  he  exclaims,  "  were  invented, 
what  assurances  vouchsafed  of  the  most  unbounded 
devotion  to  imperial  projects  in  general  and  the 
longed-for  reconstitution  of  the  Roman  Empire 
in  particular  !  Never  was  prince  so  shamefully 
abused  as  Otho  III  at  Venice."  It  is  not  necessary 
to  abandon  our  belief  in  Otho's  personal  feelings 
for  the  Doge,  augmented  by  Orseolo's  recent 
campaign,  to  realise  that  there  must  have  been 
another  side  to  the  picture.  Gulled  the  royal 
guest  in  all  probability  was,  but  there  is  little 
doubt  that  he  had  an  axe  of  his  own  to  be  ground 
on  this  visit  to  Venice  —  that  the  journey  had  for 
its  aim  something  beyond  his  delectation  in  a  sight 
of  the  Doge  and  his  obeisance  to  the  Lion.  For 
the  furtherance  of  his  schemes  of  empire  Otho 
needed  a  fleet.  He  had,  Gfrorer  tells  us,  "  an 
admiral  already  in  view  for  it.  Nothing  was 
wanted  but  cables,  anchors,  equipments ;  in  short 
there  were  not  even  ships,  nor  the  necessary  money, 
and  above  all,  there  were  no  sailors.  I  believe 
that  Otho  III  undertook  the  journey  to  Venice 
precisely  to  procure  for  himself  these  necessary 
trifles.  Who  knows  how  many  times  already  he 
had  urged  the  Doge  to  hasten  his  sending  of  the 
long-promised  fleet ;  but  in  place  of  ships 
5  [  65  ] 


VENICE 

nothing  had  yet  come  but  letters  or  embassies 
carrying  specious  excuses."  If  the  historian's 
motivisation  is  accurate,  Otho  must  have  found, 
like  so  many  after  him,  Venice  more  capable  of 
exercising  persuasion  than  of  submitting  to  it. 
For  our  uses,  however,  the  original  or  the  revised 
versions  of  the  tale  serve  the  same  purpose.  As  an 
act  of  spontaneous  homage  or  an  act  of  practical 
policy,  the  visit  of  Otho,  full  as  it  is  of  speculative 
possibilities,  was  an  imperial  tribute  to  the  position 
Orseolo  had  given  to  Venice,  an  imperial  recogni- 
tion of  her  progress  towards  supremacy  in  the 
Adriatic. 

Orseolo's  achievement  and  the  rite  which  sym- 
bolised it  were  confirmed  two  centuries  later  when, 
in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1177,  Venice  was 
the  meeting  place  of  Pope  Alexander  III  and  the 
Emperor  Frederick  Barbarossa.  Tradition  has 
woven  a  curious  romance  round  the  fact  of  the 
Pope's  sojourn  in  Venice  before  the  coming  of 
the  Emperor.  By  a  manipulation  of  various 
episodes,  he  is  brought  as  a  fugitive  to  creep  among 
the  tortuous  by-ways  of  the  city,  sleeping  on  the 
bare  ground,  and  going  forward  as  chance  might 
direct  till  he  is  received  as  a  chaplain  —  or,  to 
enhance  the  thrill  of  agony,  as  a  scullion  —  in  the 
convent  of  Santa  Maria  della  Carita,  and  after  some 

[  66  ] 


THE   NUPTIALS   OF   VENICE 

months  have  elapsed  is  brought  to  the  notice 
of  the  Doge,  when  a  transformation  scene  of  the 
Cinderella  type  is  effected.  It  is  inevitable  that 
melodramatic  touches  should  have  been  added  to 
so  important  an  episode,  and  the  accounts  of  the 
manner  of  Alexander's  arrival  and  his  bearing  in 
Venice  are  many  and  varied.  None  the  less,  it  is- 
clear  that  splendour  and  not  secrecy,  ceremony  not: 
intimacy,  are  the  general  colouring  of  the  event.. 
Frederick  had  shown  himself  disposed  to  make- 
peace and  to  accept  the  mediation  of  Venice,  and 
in  the  early  days  of  the  Pope's  visit  the  Venetians 
had  acted  as  counsellors,  pending  the  agreement  as 
to  a  meeting  place.  Significant  terms  are  used  by 
the  chroniclers  to  account  for  the  ultimate  choice, 
and  the  note  which  they  strike  is  repeated  again 
and  again  in  the  chorus  of  praise  that  throughout 
the  centuries  was  to  wait  upon  Venice.  "  Pope 
and  Emperor  sent  forth  their  mandates  to  divers 
parts  of  the  world,  that  Archbishops,  Bishops, 
Abbots,  Ecclesiastics  and  secular  Princes  should 
repair  to  Venice ;  for  Venice  is  safe  for  all,  fertile 
and  abounding  in  supplies,  and  the  people  quiet 
and  peace-loving."  Secure  among  the  lagoons, 
Venice  is  aloof  from  the  disturbances  of  the  main- 
land cities,  and  though  her  inhabitants  are  proved 
warriors  they  are  peaceable  citizens.  Many  of  the 

[  67] 


VENICE 

glories  of  Gentile  Bellini's  Procession  of  the  Cross 
would  be  present  in  the  procession  in  which  the 
Doge  and  the  magnates  of  Venice  formally  con- 
ducted Alexander  III  to  the  city  —  patriarch, 
bishops,  clergy,  and  finally  the  Pope  himself,  all 
in  their  festival  robes.  Ecclesiastical  and  secular 
princes  of  Germany,  France,  England,  Spain, 
Hungary  and  the  whole  of  Italy  were  crowding  to 
Venice.  The  occasion  gave  scope  for  her  fasci- 
nations, and  they  were  exerted.  No  opportunity 
for  display  was  neglected ;  ceremony  was  heaped 
upon  ceremony. 

For  over  a  fortnight  Venice  was  the  centre  of 
correspondence  daily  renewed  between  Emperor 
and  Pope,  of  embassies  hastening  to  and  fro,  of 
endless  postponements  and  uncertainties.  The 
Pope  retires  for  a  few  days  to  Ferrara ;  then  he  is 
back  again  to  be  received  as  before.  But  Venice, 
the  indomitable,  is  secure  of  her  will,  and  prepara- 
tions for  the  coming  of  the  Emperor  are  growing 
apace.  In  July  the  Doge's  son  is  despatched  to 
meet  the  royal  guest  at  Ravenna  and  conduct  him 
to  Venice  by  way  of  Chioggia.  No  tempests  dis- 
turbed his  arrival.  He  was  conducted  in  triumph 
up  the  lagoon  by  the  galleys  of  "  honest  men  " 
and  Cardinals  who  had  gone  forth  to  Chioggia  to 
meet  him.  Slowly  the  islands  of  the  Lido  would 

[  68  ] 


THE    NUPTIALS    OF   VENICE 

unfold  themselves  to  his  eyes,  Pellestrina  in  shining 
curves,  Malamocco  with  its  long  reaches  of  bare 
shore  and  reeds.  The  group  clustered  round 
Venice  itself — San  Servolo,  La  Grazia,  San  Laz- 
zaro,  Poveglia  —  would  be  green  and  smiling  then, 
living  islands,  not  desolated  as  now  for  the  most 
part  by  magazine  or  asylum.  San  Nicolo  del  Lido 
welcomed  the  guest,  and  he  was  borne  thence  on 
the  ducal  boat  to  the  city  and  landed  at  the  Riva. 
Through  the  acclamations  of  an  "  unheard-of  mul- 
titude "  his  way  was  made  to  San  Marco,  where 
the  Pope  in  all  his  robes,  amid  a  throng  of  gor- 
geous ecclesiastics  and  laymen,  was  waiting  on  the 
threshold.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  brilliant  and 
garish  day  into  the  solemn  mosaiced  glory  of  San 
Marco  and  moved  to  the  high  altar  between  Pope 
and  Doge  singing  a  Te  Deum,  "  while  all  gave 
thanks  to  God,  rejoicing  and  exulting  and  weep- 
ing," even  an  emperor  and  a  Barbarossa  may  well 
have  surrendered  his  pride.  Even  we,  spectators 
removed  by  time,  find  ourselves  exalted  on  the 
tide  of  colour  and  of  sound,  and  crying  to  the 
Venetians,  with  the  strangers  who  thronged  in 
their  streets,  "  Blessed  are  ye,  that  so  great  a  peace 
has  been  able  to  be  established  in  the  midst  of 
you !  This  shall  be  a  memorial  to  your  name  for 
ever."  Peace  was  secured  and  Venice  had  accom- 

[  69  1 


VENICE 

plished  he  task.  She  had  devoted  the  subtleties 
of  her  statecraft  to  its  performance,  but  perhaps 
the  splendour  of  this  hour  in  San  Marco  was  her 
crowning  achievement.  She  asked  the  recognition 
of  a  Pope,  and  she  brought  the  temporal  sovereign 
to  his  side  in  a  church  which  is  one  of  the  wonders 
of  Christendom.  She  polished  and  gilded  every 
detail  of  her  worldly  magnificence,  and  poured  it 
as  an  oblation  at  the  altar.  Her  reinforcements  to 
the  cause  of  Alexander  III  were  drawn  from  far 
back  in  the  ages,  from  the  inspiration  of  the  men 
who  had  fashioned  her  temple ;  and  may  there  not 
be  some  deeper  signification  than  merely  that  of 
Frederick's  stubbornness  in  the  "  Not  to  thee,  but 
to  St.  Peter,"  traditionally  attributed  to  him  as  he 
prostrated  himself  at  his  enemy's  feet  ? 

To  Venice  there  remained,  beside  the  praise  of 
all  Christendom,  many  tangible  tokens  of  the 
events  of  the  summer.  Emperor  and  Pope  vied 
with  each  other  in  evincing  their  gratitude.  Alex- 
ander formally  sanctioned  and  confirmed  the  title 
of  Venice  as  sovereign  and  queen  of  the  Adriatic, 
and  bestowed  on  the  Doge  a  consecrated  ring  for 
use  at  the  Nuptials.  And  henceforth  the  ceremony 
at  San  Nicolo  del  Lido,  the  place  of  arrival  and 
departure  for  the  high  seas  and  for  Dalmatia  and 
the  East,  was  increased  in  magnificence.  No  trace 


THE   DOORWAY   OF  SAN   MARCO. 


THE   NUPTIALS    OF    VENICE 

now  remains  of  the  church  where  the  rites  were 
performed ;  but  the  grassy  squares  of  San  Nicolo 
and  the  wooded  slopes  of  its  canal,  looking  on  one 
side  to  the  city,  on  the  other  to  the  sea,  are  beauti- 
ful still.  The  ocean  calls  to  the  lagoon,  and  the 
calm  waters  of  the  lagoon  sway  themselves  in 
answer ;  while,  outside  the  Lido,  line  beyond  line 
of  snowy-crested  waves,  ever  advancing,  bear  in  to 
Venice,  Bride  of  the  Adriatic,  the  will  of  the  high 
sea. 


[73] 


Chapter  jfour 

VENICE  IN  FESTIVAL 

THE  treaty  signed  in  1573  between  Venice 
and  Constantinople,  though  it  marked  no 
real  rise  in  her  fortunes,  gave  her  a  respite 
from  the  petty  and  fruitless  warfare  with  the  Turk, 
in  which  she  had  so  long  been  engaged.  That 
conflict  had  drained  the  resources  of  the  Republic 
without  affording  compensating  gains.  The  loss 
and  horrors  of  Famagosta  might  seem  to  have  been 
revenged  by  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  where  the  tri- 
umph of  Venice  and  her  allies  was  complete  ;  but 
owing  to  the  dilatoriness  and  inaction  of  Don  John 
of  Austria,  brother  of  Philip  of  Spain,  the  opportu- 
nity of  annihilating  the  Turkish  forces  was  allowed 
to  escape,  and  victory  was  reduced  to  little  more 
than  the  name.  So  flagrant  had  been  the  charac- 
ter of  Don  John's  disloyalty  that  the  Venetians  no 
longer  could  mistake  his  intentions.  Spain  was  an 
ally  of  Venice ;  but  Tommaso  Morosini  was  but 
voicing  the  general  conviction  when  he  exclaimed, 
"  We  must  face  the  fact  that  there  will  be  no 
profitable  progress,  seeing  that  the  victory  already 

[  74] 


VENICE   IN    FESTIVAL 

gained  by  the  forces  of  the  League  against  the 
Turk  was  great  in  the  number  of  ships  captured, 
rare  in  the  number  of  slaves  set  free,  famous  by 
reason  of  the  power  it  broke,  formidable  for  the 
numbers  killed  by  the  sword,  glorious  for  the  pride 
it  laid  low,  terrible  in  the  fame  acquired  by  it. 
And,  none  the  less,  no  single  foot  of  ground  was 
gained.  Oh,  incomparable  ignominy  and  shame 
of  the  allies,  that  whatever  honour  they  obtained 
in  consequence  of  the  victory,  they  lost  by  not  fol- 
lowing it  up  !  "  Though  nominally  in  league  with 
her  against  the  Turk,  Spain,  owing  to  her  jealousy 
of  Venice,  was  unwilling  that  the  war  should  be 
ended.  The  League  of  Cambray,  formed  in  1508 
by  the  European  powers  unfriendly  to  Venice, 
should  have  made  it  clear  to  the  Republic  that  she 
had  over-reached  her  own  interests  by  interference 
in  the  politics  of  Europe.  Moreover,  a  severe  blow 
had  been  dealt  to  the  commerce  of  Venice  by  the 
discovery  of  the  Cape  route  to  the  East.  Yet, 
though  her  decline  had  begun,  she  still  formed  a 
subject  for  envy,  and  there  is  justice  in  Morosini's 
conclusion  as  to  the  causes  of  the  growing  enmity 
of  Spain.  "  Ruling,  "  he  says  of  the  Spaniards,  "  a 
good  part  of  Europe,  having  passed  into  Africa, 
having  discovered  new  territory,  dominating  most 
of  Italy,  and  seeing  the  Republic,  the  single  part, 

[  75  1 


VENICE 

the  only  corner  of  Italy,  to  be  free  and  without  the 
least  burden  of  slavery,  they  envy  it,  envying  it  they 
hate  it,  and  hating  it  they  lay  snares  for  it." 

Though  the  terms  of  the  peace  with  Constanti- 
nople were  humiliating  in  the  extreme  (Venice 
relinquished  the  whole  of  Cyprus,  a  fortress  in 
Albania,  and  agreed  within  three  years  to  pay  an 
indemnity  of  one  hundred  thousand  ducats)  it  set 
her  hands  free  for  awhile  and  gave  her  a  breathing 
space  in  which  to  return  to  her  pageants.  And 
for  the  next  few  years  she  laid  herself  out  more 
completely  than  ever  before  to  impress  the  world 
by  her  splendour.  It  is  not  easy  to  determine  the 
beginnings  of  decadent  luxury  in  Venetian  history. 
Venice  had  always  been  a  pleasure-house,  a  place 
of  entertainment  for  kings  and  emperors,  a  temple 
of  solemn  festival.  Perhaps  the  broad  difference 
between  the  splendours  of  the  early  and  late 
Renaissance  is  that  one  achieved  that  perfection  of 
taste  which  robes  luxury  in  apparent  simplicity, 
while  the  other  was  more  obvious  and  expansive  — 
the  difference  between  the  Madonnas  of  Bellini 
and  of  Titian,  between  the  interiors  of  Carpaccio 
and  Paul  Veronese.  There  is  a  real  and  discerni- 
ble difference  in  aspect  between  Venice  of  the  fif- 
teenth and  Venice  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  it 
is  not  the  difference  between  asceticism  and  luxury. 

[  76  1 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

Venice  was  never  ascetic,  no  prophet  ever  drew 
her  citizens  round  a  sacrificial  bonfire  on  the 
Piazza.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  said  that  a  Vene- 
tian merchant  was  burnt  in  effigy  on  Savonarola's 
pile  because  he  had  attempted  to  purchase  some 
of  the  doomed  Florentine  treasures.  In  the 
course  of  the  fifteenth  century  isolated  voices  were 
indeed  raised  in  protest  against  the  luxury  of 
Venice,  and  the  authorities  themselves,  as  the  State 
coffers  grew  empty,  tried  by  oratorical  appeal  and 
detailed  legislation  to  curb  the  extravagance  of 
private  citizens.  But  their  protests  were,  in  the 
main,  quite  ineffectual.  Venice  could  not  resist 
the  influences  that  wove  for  her  each  day  a  magi- 
cal dress ;  she  could  not  refuse  the  treasures  of  the 
East :  it  was  her  function  to  be  beautiful,  to  accept 
and  love  every  wonder,  to  turn  her  face  against 
nothing  that  could  glorify.  She  had  always  ap- 
peared as  a  miracle  to  men,  she  had  always  lavished 
her  treasures  on  her  guests ;  the  vital  difference 
between  the  period  of  her  decline  and  that  of  her 
greatness  lies  in  the  gradual  relaxation  of  the  ties 
binding  her  to  the  sources  of  her  wealth.  With 
the  ebbing  of  her  trade  her  citizens  begin  to  bar- 
ter their  landed  estates  and  their  treasures.  Moro- 
sini's  acute  and  interesting  prophecy  as  to  the 
private  banks  into  which  Venetian  money  began 

[  77  1 


VENICE 

to  be  diverted  provides  us  with  a  background  to 
some  of  the  almost  fabulous  expenditure  of  the 
Cinquecento  —  "The  banker,"  he  says,  "with  a 
chance  of  obliging  many  friends  in  their  need,  and 
acquiring  others  by  such  a  service,  and  with  power 
to  do  so  without  spending  money,  simply  by  mak- 
ing a  brief  entry,  is  easily  persuaded  to  satisfy 
many.  When  the  opportunity  arises  of  buying 
some  valuable  piece  of  furniture  or  decoration, 
clothes,  jewels  and  similar  things  of  great  price,  he 
is  easily  persuaded  to  please  himself,  simply  order- 
ing a  line  or  two  to  be  written  in  his  books  — 
reassuring,  or  rather,  deceiving  himself  with  the 
thought  that  one  year  being  passed  in  this  way,  he 
can  carry  time  forward,  and  pass  many  years  in  the 
same  manner,  scheming  that  such  an  affair  or  such 
an  investment  as  he  has  in  hand,  when  it  has  come 
to  perfection,  ought  to  prove  most  useful,  and  that 
through  its  means  he  may  be  able  to  remedy  other 
disorders ;  which  hope  proving  fallacious  shows 
with  how  little  security  walks  one  who  places  his 
thoughts  and  hopes  in  the  uncertain  and  inconstant 
issues  of  events." 

The  fabric  of  sixteenth-century  Venice  was  too 
largely  founded  on  the  "  uncertain  and  inconstant 
issues  of  events,"  but  none  the  less  it  was  as  radiant 
a  fabric  as  any  that  man  has  yet  fashioned.  Some- 

[  78  1 


VENICE    IN  FESTIVAL 

thing  at  least  of  its  nature  may  be  learned  from 
the  details  of  the  entertainment  of  Henry  III  in 
Venice,  and  his  lodging  and  reception  in  the  then 
fashionable  suburb  of  Murano.  Henry  came  to 
Venice  in  the  early  summer  of  1574,  on  his  way 
from  Poland  to  take  possession  of  the  throne  of 
France  vacated  by  the  death  of  his  brother  Charles 
IX.  He  came  at  a  moment  when  Venice  was  rich 
in  artists  to  do  him  honour  —  Tintoretto,  Paolo 
Veronese,  Palladio  and  Claudio  Merulo :  he  was 
crowned  with  the  laurels  of  war  ;  while  the  Re- 
public was  able  to  clothe  herself  in  the  glory  of 
Lepanto  and  the  respite  of  her  newly  concluded 
peace  with  the  Turk  and,  superficially  at  least, 
appeared  peculiarly  fitted  to  welcome  him.  The 
young  King  was  gracious,  and  greedy  to  drink  his 
fill  of  life,  and  Venice  was  unique  in  her  celebra- 
tion. The  visit  was  one  of  the  most  spontaneous, 
the  most  joyful  to  host  and  guest,  of  any  that  are 
recorded  in  her  annals.  All  the  territory  of 
Venice  was  prepared  to  honour  him,  and  his  jour- 
ney was  a  triumphal  progress.  There  is  something 
joyous  still  about  the  little  inland  cities  of  his 
route,  echoes  of  festival  still  linger  in  their  streets, 
romance  still  dwells  in  their  hearts.  At  Treviso, 
where  the  young  King  was  welcomed  with  peculiar 
pomp,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  portrayed  by  three 

[  79  1 


VENICE 

successive  ages,  rules  still,  his  majesty  sustained  by 
the  sturdiness  of  life  that  moves  in  the  city.  The 
winding  cobbled  streets  are  full  of  bustle  and  inter- 
change, the  arcades  are  full  of  people,  vital  and 
busily  employed.  Treviso  is  not  a  museum.  Its 
ancient  palace  of  the  Cavallieri  is  still  in  use, 
though  its  loggia  with  traces  of  rich  fresco  is  filled 
with  lumber.  But  we  are  not  critical  of  small 
details  at  Treviso ;  we  thank  it  for  its  winding 
streets  and  for  its  leaping  azure  river  ;  we  thank  it 
for  its  countless  ancient  roofs  and  painted  rafters ; 
for  its  houses  high  and  low,  harmonious  though 
endless  in  variation,  for  the  remnants  of  fresco, 
shadows  no  doubt  of  what  once  they  were,  but 
companionable  shadows  —  horses  with  still  distin- 
guishable motions,  graceful  maidens  both  of  land 
and  sea.  These  glories  are  fading  but  they  have 
substance  still,  and  on  a  day  of  mid-autumn  we 
are  well  able  to  imagine  a  kingly  procession  on 
the  road  from  Treviso  to  Mestre.  It  seems  a 
pageant,  a  progress  of  pomp  and  colour,  as  we 
pass  between  the  vineyards  and  maize  fields  and 
the  grea«t  gardens  and  pastures  of  the  villas,  down 
the  avenue  of  plane  trees  set  like  gold  banners  on 
silvery  flagstaff's  with  carpets  of  fallen  leaves  at 
their  feet.  Behind  them  are  ranked  dark  cy- 
presses, pale  groups  of  willow,  or  companies  of 

[80] 


VIEW   FROM   CA    D'ORO. 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

poplar.  And  these  are  often  garlanded  to  their 
very  summits  by  crimson  creepers,  and  interspersed 
with  statues,  not  perhaps  great  in  workmanship, 
but  tempered  and  harmonised  into  beauty  by  the 
seasons.  Here  and  there  is  a  lawn  flanked  by  dark 
shrubbery,  or  a  terrace  ablaze  with  dahlias  and 
salvia.  And,  among  them,  Baron  Franchetti  of 
the  Ca  d'Oro  has  a  home  even  more  worthy  of 
the  golden  title  than  is  his  palace  on  the  shores 
of  the  Grand  Canal  —  a  place  where  the  sun 
reveals  miraculous  hangings  in  the  shrubberies, 
sumptuously  furnished  with  scarlet  and  crimson 
and  gold. 

Some  such  festival  of  colour,  in  banners  and 
trappings,  would  be  Henry's  preparation  for  the 
pageant  of  the  lagoons.  For  he  was  met  at 
Marghera,  half  way  between  Mestre  and  Venice, 
by  a  troop  of  senators  and  noblemen  and  ambassa- 
dors, and  escorted  to  the  palace  of  Bartolomeo 
Capello  at  Murano.  Of  the  young  King's  lodging 
at  Murano  we  have  spoken  elsewhere  —  of  the 
hall  hung  with  gold  brocade,  with  golden  balda- 
quin, green  velvet  and  silk,  its  entrance  guarded 
by  sixty  halberdiers  armed  for  the  occasion  with 
gilt  spears  borrowed  from  the  chambers  of  the 
Council  of  Ten.  Forty  noble  youths,  in  glorious 
attire,  had  been  told  off  to  wait  on  the  King. 

[  83  1 


VENICE 

But,  "  although  a  most  sumptuous  supper  was 
prepared,  none  the  less  His  Majesty,  when  the 
senators  were  gone,  showed  himself  a  short  while 
at  the  windows  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold  and  silk ; 
after  which  he  went  to  supper,  and  the  princes 
arrived,  so  that  it  was  most  glorious  with  abundant 
supply  of  exquisite  viands  and  most  delicate  foods." 
The  hearts  of  the  Venetians  were  won  by  the 
King's  beauty  and  youth,  by  his  delicate  person 
and  grave  aspect,  by  his  majestic  bearing  and  his 
eagerness  to  please  and  be  pleased.  He  was  in 
mourning  for  his  brother,  but  his  mourning  did 
not  shadow  Venice  by  its  gloom.  "  His  Majesty 
appeared  in  public  dressed  all  in  purple  (which  is 
his  mourning)  with  a  Flemish  cloak,  a  cap  on  his 
head  in  the  Italian  mode,  with  long  veil  and 
mantle  reaching  to  his  feet,  slashed  jerkin,  stock- 
ings and  leather  collar,  and  a  large  shirt-frill  most 
becomingly  worn,  with  perfumed  gloves  in  his 
hand,  and  wearing  on  his  feet  shoes  with  heels 
a  la  mode  francaise" 

It  would  be  tedious  to  relate  the  details  of  the 
splendid  entertainments  that  each  day  were  pro- 
vided for  his  delectation  ;  of  salutes  that  made  the 
earth  and  water  tremble,  of  fireworks  glowing  all 
night  beneath  the  windows  of  the  Ca  Foscari,  of 
the  blaze  of  light  from  the  candles  set  in  every 

[  84  ] 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

window  and  cornice  and  angle  of  the  buildings 
along  the  Grand  Canal,  of  the  gilded  lilies  and 
pyramids  and  wheels  reflected  in  the  water,  "  so 
that  the  canal  seemed  like  another  starry  sky." 
It  was  a  veritable  gala  for  Henry ;  he  paid  a 
private  visit  to  the  Doge  to  the  great  satisfaction 
of  that  prince  and  his  senate,  he  went  about  in- 
cognito in  a  gondola  alone  with  the  Duke  of 
Ferrara,  "  so  that  when  they  thought  he  was  in 
his  room,  he  was  in  some  other  part  of  the  city, 
returning  home  at  an  exceedingly  late  hour  accom- 
panied by  many  torches,  and  immensely  enjoying 
the  liberty  of  this  town ;  and  on  account  of  his 
charm  and  courtesy,  the  whole  place  gave  vent  to 
the  lasting  joy  and  satisfaction  it  felt  in  continu- 
ally seeing  him."  He  spent  three  hours  in  the 
Arsenal,  engrossed  in  viewing  the  vast  preparation 
for  war  and  the  spoils  won  from  the  Turk  "  in 
the  sea  battle  on  the  day  of  the  great  victory  "  ; 
and  then  in  the  chamber  of  the  Council  of  Ten, 
within  the  Arsenal,  he  was  provided  with  a  Sugar 
Feast,  with  sugar  dishes,  knives  and  forks,  so  ad- 
mirably counterfeit  that  His  Majesty  only  realised 
their  nature  when  his  sugar  napkin  crumbled  and 
a  piece  of  it  fell  to  the  ground.  Is  there  not 
something  contributive  to  our  picture  of  Venice 
the  entertainer,  in  this  feast  of  sugar  given  by  the 

[  85  1 


VENICE 

terrible  Council  of  Ten  within  the  walls  of  the 
Arsenal  itself?  There  is  naturally  much  vague 
repetition  in  the  chronicles  of  the  time,  but  here 
and  there  are  vital  touches  which  bring  the  young 
King  to  life  before  our  eyes.  At  the  banquet 
given  in  his  honour  in  the  Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio, 
having  eaten  sufficiently  himself,  he  brought  the 
meal  to  an  end  before  half  of  the  courses  had  ap- 
peared, by  adroitly  causing  the  Dukes  of  Savoy 
and  Ferrara  to  rise  in  their  places  at  his  side,  and 
calling  for  water  for  his  hands  during  the  disturb- 
ance caused  by  the  lords  and  ambassadors  as  they 
followed  the  example  of  the  dukes.  He  told 
Giovanni  Michele  that  of  all  the  entertainments 
he  had  witnessed  in  Venice  none  had  pleased  him 
more  than  the  "  Guerra  dei  Ponti,"  and  that  if  he 
had  known  of  it  earlier  he  would  have  prayed  to 
have  had  the  spectacle  repeated  several  times,  for 
he  "  could  have  asked  nothing  better  than  this." 
The  Guerre  dei  Ponti  were  wrestling  matches  that 
took  place  on  certain  bridges  over  the  canals,  and 
pages  of  description  might  not  have  told  us  as 
much  of  the  nature  of  the  man  who  lived  behind 
the  scented  gloves  and  purple  mantle,  as  this  single 
expression  of  preference. 

Two  episodes  in  the  visit  of  Henry  that  seem 
worthy  of  fuller  record  stand  out  from  the  rest: 

[  86  ] 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

his  reception  at  the  Lido  and  the  Ball  in  the 
Ducal  Palace ;  and  they  represent  the  achieve- 
ments in  his  honour  of  two  departments  of  Vene- 
tian activity,  the  City  Guilds  and  the  Court. 
While  he  was  still  in  his  lodging  at  Murano 
barges  of  immense  splendour,  vying  with  each 
other  in  symbolism  and  ingenuity  of  design,  and 
each  representing  one  of  the  trades  of  Venice,  had 
arrived  to  accompany  him  to  the  Lido.  If  we 
imagine  the  Lord  Mayor's  Procession,  with  splen- 
dour a  thousandfold  enhanced  and  with  drapery 
and  design  of  artistic  excellence,  removed  from 
the  streets  to  the  glittering  surface  of  the  lagoon, 
we  may  have  some  idea  of  the  spectacle.  Among 
the  most  splendid  of  the  barges  was  that  of  the 
Druggists,  with  an  ensign  of  the  Saviour  riding 
on  the  world.  "  The  outer  coverings  themselves 
were  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  below  them  and  below 
the  oars  were  painted  canvases.  The  poop  was 
hung  within  with  most  beautiful  carpets,  and  on 
the  four  sides  four  pyramids  were  erected  of  sky 
blue  with  fireworks  inside  them,  at  the  feet  of 
which  were  four  stucco  figures  representing  four 
nymphs,  and  there  were  set  two  arquebuses  and  a 
musket  and  two  flags  white  and  red  and  a  flag 
of  battle.  And  on  the  outside  were  divers  sorts 
of  arms,  spears  and  shields  and  six  arquebuses. 

[  87  ] 


VENICE 

On  the  prow  was  a  pyramid  with  fireworks,  on 
the  top  of  which  was  an  angel  —  for  this  and 
the  Golden  Head  were  the  badges  of  the  two 
honoured  druggists  who  had  decked  the  said 
vessel  —  and  in  the  midst  of  it  was  a  design  of  a 
pelican  with  a  motto  round  it  in  letters  of  gold, 
Respice  Domino,  representing  the  pelican  as  wound- 
ing its  breast  to  draw  blood  from  it  to  nourish  its 
offspring,  just  as  they,  the  druggists,  faithful  and 
devoted  to  their  prince  and  master,  gave  and 
offered  to  him,  not  only  their  faculties  but  their 
blood  itself,  which  is  their  own  life  in  his  service  ; 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  pyramid  was  a  little  boy 
beating  a  drum."  The  Looking-Glass  Makers 
also  had  prepared  a  magnificent  barge  glittering 
with  symbols  of  their  profession.  But  perhaps 
the  device  of  the  Glass-Workers  of  Murano  out- 
rivalled  all  others  in  ingenuity  and  pomp.  "  On 
two  great  barges,  chained  together  and  covered 
with  painted  canvases,  they  had  erected  a  furnace 
in  the  form  of  a  sea-monster ;  and  following  the 
train  of  vessels,  flames  were  seen  issuing  from  its 
mouths,  and,  the  masters  having  given  their  con- 
sent, the  Glass- Workers  made  most  beautiful  vases 
of  crystal,  which  were  cause  of  great  pleasure  to 
the  King." 

The  Convent  of  Sant*   Elena  was  the  vantage 

[  88  ] 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

point  chosen  for  looking  on  Venice,  and  at  the 
moment  the  army  of  barges  and  brigantines 
reached  it,  they  spread  out  in  front  of  His  Ma- 
jesty, and  a  salute  broke  from  them  all ;  "  to 
which  the  galleys  in  the  train  of  the  King  replied 
in  such  ordered  unity  that  His  Majesty  rose  to  his 
feet  with  great  curiosity  to  see  them,  praising  ex- 
ceedingly so  wonderful  a  sight,  admiring  to  his 
right  the  fair  and  famous  city  marvellously  built 
upon  the  salt  waters,  and  on  the  left  a  forest  of  so 
many  ships  and  vessels  with  so  great  noise  of  artil- 
lery and  arquebuses,  and  of  trumpets  and  drums, 
that  he  remained  astounded ;  while  he  openly 
showed  himself  not  less  merry  than  content,  see- 
ing so  rare  a  thing  as  was  never  before  seen  of 
him."  Henry's  arrival  at  the  Lido  is  portrayed 
in  the  Sala  delle  Quattro  Porte  in  the  Ducal 
Palace.  He  is  seen  advancing  with  sprightly  step, 
between  two  dignitaries  of  the  Church,  up  a  tem- 
porary wooden  bridge  towards  the  Triumphal 
Arch  and  Temple  of  Palladio.  This  arch  was 
decorated  with  paintings  by  Paolo  and  Tintoretto, 
and  in  connexion  with  it  Ridolfi  tells  a  delightful 
story  of  the  painting  of  Henry's  portrait.  "  Tin- 
toretto," says  Ridolfi,  "  was  longing  to  paint  the 
King's  portrait,  and  in  consequence  begged  Paolo 
to  finish  the  arch  by  himself;  and,  taking  off  his 

[  89  ] 


VENICE 

toga,  Tintoretto  dressed  himself  as  one  of  the 
Doge's  equerries,  and  took  his  place  among  them 
in  the  Bucintoro  as  it  moved  to  meet  the  King, 
thus  furtively  procuring  a  chalk  sketch  of  the  pro- 
posed portrait,  which  he  was  afterwards  to  enlarge 
to  life  size ;  and  having  made  friends  with  M. 
Bellagarda,  the  King's  treasurer,  he  was  introduced 
with  much  difficulty,  owing  to  the  frequent  visits 
of  the  Doge,  into  the  royal  apartments  to  retouch 
the  portrait  from  life.  Now  whilst  he  stood 
painting,  and  the  King  with  great  courtesy  admir- 
ing, there  entered  presumptuously  into  the  apart- 
ments a  smith  of  the  Arsenal,  presenting  an 
ill-done  portrait  by  himself,  and  saying  that,  while 
His  Majesty  was  dining  in  the  Arsenal,  he  had 
done  the  likeness  of  him.  His  presumption  was 
humbled  by  a  courtier  who  snatched  it  from  his 
hand,  and  ripping  it  up  with  his  dagger  threw  it 
into  the  neighbouring  Grand  Canal :  which  inci- 
dent, on  account  of  the  whispering  it  produced, 
made  it  difficult  for  the  painter  to  carry  out  his 
intention.  Tintoretto  had  also  observed  on  that 
occasion  that  from  time  to  time  certain  persons 
were  introduced  to  the  King,  whom  he  touched 
lightly  on  the  shoulder  with  his  rapier,  adding 
other  ceremonies.  And  pretending  not  to  under- 
stand the  meaning,  he  asked  it  of  Bellagarda,  who 

[  90  1 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

said  that  they  were  created  knights  by  His  Ma- 
jesty, and  that  he,  Tintoretto,  might  prepare  him- 
self to  receive  that  degree ;  for  he  had  discussed 
the  matter  with  the  King,  to  whom  Tintoretto's 
conditions  were  known  and  who  had  shown  him- 
self disposed,  in  attestation  of  his  powers,  to  create 
him  also  a  knight ;  but  our  painter,  not  being 
willing  to  subject  himself  to  any  title,  modestly 
rejected  the  offer."  When  the  portrait  was  fin- 
ished and  presented  to  the  King,  it  was  acclaimed 
by  him  as  a  marvellous  likeness,  and  we  may 
safely  conclude  from  this  that  it  was  fair  to  look 
on.  The  King  presented  it  to  the  Doge.  Per- 
haps the  picture  from  the  first  had  been  intended 
as  a  present  for  Mocenigo,  and  this  was  the  ex- 
planation of  the  secrecy  observed  in  regard  to  it. 

The  climax  of  entertainment  was  reached  in  the 
festa  at  the  Ducal  Palace  on  the  second  Sunday 
after  Henry's  arrival  (his  visit  lasted  ten  days). 
The  glories  of  Venice  were  gathered  in  that 
marvellous  hall  still  hung  with  the  paintings  of  Car- 
paccio  and  Gentile  Bellini,  and  the  exquisite  Para- 
dise of  Guariento ;  for  it  was  yet  a  year  previous 
to  the  great  fire  which  was  to  give  scope  to  the 
contemporary  giants.  The  later  victories  of  Venice 
were  as  yet  unchronicled  except  in  the  hearts  of 
living  men.  There  was  no  thought  of  sumptuary 

[  93  1 


VENICE 

laws  on  this  day  at  least  of  the  great  festival. 
Ladies  were  there  clothed  all  in  ormesine,  adorned 
with  jewels  and  pearls  of  great  size,  not  only  in 
strings  on  their  necks,  but  covering  their  head- 
dresses and  the  cloaks  on  their  shoulders.  "  And 
in  their  whiteness,  their  beauty  and  magnificence, 
they  formed  a  choir  not  so  much  of  nymphs  as 
of  very  goddesses.  They  were  set  one  behind  the 
other  in  fair  order  upon  carpeted  benches  stretch- 
ing round  the  whole  hall,  leaving  an  ample  space 
in  the  centre,  at  the  head  of  which  was  set  a  royal 
seat  with  a  covering  of  gold  and  entirely  covered 
with  a  baldaquin  from  top  to  bottom,  and  round  it 
yellow  and  blue  satin."  All  the  splendours  of 
Venetian  and  Oriental  cloths  were  lavished  on  the 
Hall  of  the  Great  Council  and  the  Sala  del  Scru- 
tinio  adjoining.  The  King  as  usual  entered  whole- 
heartedly into  the  festivity.  His  seat  was  raised 
that  he  might  look  over  the  company,  "  but  he 
chose  nevertheless  to  go  round  and  salute  all  the 
ladies  with  much  grace  and  courtesy,  raising  his 
cap  as  he  went  along."  After  a  time  musical 
instruments  were  heard,  the  ladies  were  carried  off 
by  the  gentlemen,  and  forming  into  line  they 
began  to  dance  a  slow  measure,  passing  before  the 
King  and  bowing  as  they  passed.  "  And  he  stood 
the  whole  while  cap  in  hand."  The  French  cour- 

[  94] 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

tiers  were  permitted  by  their  master  to  lay  aside 
their  mourning  for  the  time,  and  they  danced  with 
great  merriment,  vying  with  the  most  famous 
dancers  of  Venice.  But  the  great  feature  of  the 
evening  was  the  tragedy  by  Cornelio  Frangipani — 
a  mythological  masque  in  honour  of  the  most 
Christian  King  and  of  Venice  herself —  with  Pro- 
teus, Iris,  Mars,  Amazons,  Pallas  and  Mercury  as 
protagonists.  To  the  first  printed  edition  of  his 
masque  Frangipani  prefixed  an  apology  for  his 
title  of  tragedy,  with  the  usual  appeal  to  classic 
precedent.  "  This  tragedy  of  mine,"  he  says,  "  was 
recited  in  such  a  way  as  most  nearly  to  approach 
to  the  form  of  the  ancients ;  all  the  players  sang 
in  sweetest  harmony,  now  accompanied,  now 
alone ;  and  finally  the  chorus  of  Mercury  was 
composed  of  players  who  had  so  many  various 
instruments  as  were  never  heard  before.  The 
trumpets  introduced  the  gods  on  to  the  appointed 
scene  with  the  machinery  of  tragedy,  but  this 
could  not  be  used  to  effect  on  account  of  the  great 
concourse  of  people ;  and  the  ancients  could  not 
have  been  initiated  into  the  musical  compositions 
in  which  Claudio  Merulo  had  reached  a  height 
certainly  never  attained  by  the  ancients."  The 
masque  is  in  reality  a  mere  masque  of  occasion, 
comparable  to  countless  English  productions  in  the 

[  95  1 


VENICE 

Elizabethan  age,  though  lacking  in  the  lyrical  grace 
they  generally  possess.  Henry  is  addressed  as  the 
slayer  of  monsters,  the  harbinger  of  peace,  the 
herald  of  the  age  of  gold  — 

Pregamo  questo  domator  de*  mostri 

Ch'eterno  al  mondo  viva, 

Perche  in  pregiata  oliva 

Ha  da  cangiar  d'  alloro 

E  apportar  1*  antica  eta  del*  oro. 

The  masque  is  without  literary  merit,  but  we 
need  not  regard  it  in  the  cold  light  of  an  after  day, 
caged  and  with  clipped  wings.  To  that  glorious 
assembly,  illumined  by  the  great  deeds  fresh  in 
men's  minds  and  the  presence  of  a  royal  hero, 
Frangipani's  words  may  well  have  been  kindled 
into  flame.  For  if  time  and  place  were  ever  in 
conspiracy  to  wing  pedestrian  thoughts  and  words, 
it  must  have  been  at  this  feting  of  the  most  Chris- 
tian King  of  France  in  the  City  of  the  Sea. 

Pens  were  busy  in  Venice  during  the  days  of 
Henry's  stay.  Unsalaried  artists,  independent  of 
everything  except  a  means  of  livelihood,  exacted 
toll  from  the  royal  guest.  From  the  16,000  scudi 
of  largess  distributed  by  the  King,  payments  are 
enumerated  "  to  writers  and  poets  who  presented  to 
His  Majesty  Latin  works  and  poems  made  in  praise 

of  his  greatness  and  splendour.  "      Gifts,  as  well  as 

[  96] 


VENICE    IN    FESTIVAL 

compliments  were  exchanged  on  all  hands.  The 
Duke  of  Savoy  presented  the  Doge's  wife  with  a 
girdle  studded  with  thirty  gold  rosettes  each  con- 
taining four  pearls  and  a  precious  jewel  in  the 
centre,  worth  1,800  scudi.  And  Henry's  final 
token  of  gratitude  to  his  entertainers  was  to  send 
after  the  Doge,  who  had  accompanied  him  to 
Fusina,  a  magnificent  diamond  ring,  begging  that 
Mocenigo  should  wear  it  continually  in  token  of 
their  love.  Most  of  these  offerings  and  acknowl- 
edgments, without  doubt,  would  be  merely  cere- 
monial. Yet  the  young  King's  delight  in  his 
visit  had  been  genuine,  and  his  frank  enjoyment 
of  all  Venice  offered  had  won  him  her  sympathy 
and  even  her  affection.  Memories  of  the  freedom 
of  his  stay  went  with  him  to  the  routine  of  his 
kingship,  and  he  looked  backwards  with  delight 
to  her  winged  pleasures.  She  had  spread  gifts  out 
before  him,  as  she  does  before  all,  but  in  his  own 
hands  he  had  carried  the  key  of  her  inmost  treas- 
ures; for  his  spirit  was  joyful  and  joy  is  the  key  to 
the  unlocking  of  her  heart. 


[  97  1 


Cfmpter 

A   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

e<f^\  IAMO  noi  calcolatori "  was  the  confession 
^^  of  a  modern  Venetian,  quoted  lately  as 
^^  expressive  of  the  spirit  that  governs  Venice 
to-day  and  has  lain  at  the  root  of  her  policy  in 
the  past.  The  confession  is  striking ;  for  most 
men,  however  calculating  in  practice,  acknowledge 
an  ideal  of  spontaneous  generosity  which  causes 
them  to  shun  the  admission  of  self-interested 
motives.  The  charge,  if  charge  it  can  be  termed, 
is  an  old  one.  Again  and  again  it  has  been 
brought  against  Venice  by  those  to  whom  her 
greatness  has  been  a  stumbling-block  —  "  sono  cal- 
colatori." But  perhaps  if  the  indictment  be 
rightly  understood  it  will  be  found  to  need,  not 
so  much  a  denial  as  an  extension,  a  fuller  state- 
ment of  meaning.  And  this  Professor  Molmenti 
has  supplied  in  his  Vemce  in  the  Middle  Ages? 
"  The  Venetians,"  he  says,  in  commenting  on  the 
support  they  lent  to  the  Crusades,  "  never  forgot 
their  commercial  and  political  interests  in  their 
zeal  for  the  faith ;  they  intended  to  secure  for 

1  Translated  by  Mr.  Horatio  Browne. 
[  98  ] 


A    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE 

themselves  a  market  in  every  corner  of  the  globe. 
But  their  so-called  egoism  displayed  itself  in  a 
profound  attachment  to  their  country  and  their 
race ;  and  these  greedy  hucksters,  these  selfish 
adventurers,  as  they  are  sometimes  unjustly  called, 
had  at  bottom  a  genuine  belief  in  objects  high  and 
serious ;  the  merchant  not  seldom  became  a  hero. 
These  lords  of  the  sea  knew  how  to  wed  the 
passion  of  Christianity  to  commercial  enterprise, 
and  welded  the  aspirations  of  the  faith  with  the 
interests  of  their  country,  proving  by  their  action 
not  only  how  vain  and  sterile  is  an  idealism  which 
consumes  itself  in  morbid  dreams,  but  also  that  the 
mere  production  of  riches  will  lead  to  ruin  unless 
it  be  tempered,  legalised,  almost,  we  would  say, 
sanctified,  by  the  serene  and  lifegiving  breath  of 
the  ideal."  But  because  she  was  supremely  suc- 
cessful in  her  undertakings,  Venice  won  for  herself 
much  perplexed  and  hostile  comment  from  those 
who  were  jealous  of  a  mastery  sustained  with  such 
apparently  effortless  self-possession  —  of  an  organ- 
isation so  complete,  so  silent,  so  pervasive.  She 
has  been  accused  of  perfidy,  of  cruelty,  in  short,  of 
shameless  egoism.  A  nation,  a  state,  is  pledged  to 
the  preservation  of  its  identity,  its  conceptions  must 
be  bounded  and  constantly  measured  by  the  power 
of  other  states.  The  neighbours  of  Venice  in  the 

[  99  1 


VENICE 

days  of  her  glory  were  selfish  and  calculating  also ; 
her  prominence  was  due  not  so  much  to  special 
weapons  as  to  her  skill  in  wielding  weapons 
everywhere  in  use. 

And  what  can  we  say  of  the  ends  to  which  she 
directed  her  success,  the  scope  of  her  arts,  the 
nature  of  her  pleasures  ?  It  must  be  admitted  by 
all  that  the  soul  of  Venice  was  capacious,  unique 
in  its  harmony  of  imagination  and  political  acumen ; 
unique  in  its  power  of  commanding  and  retaining 
respect.  A  great  soul  was  in  the  men  of  Venice  ; 
it  was  present  in  all  their  activities,  in  their  com- 
merce as  in  their  art.  The  two  were  most  inti- 
mately allied.  Again  and  again  the  chroniclers 
of  Venice  crown  their  catalogue  of  her  glories 
with  the  reminder  that  their  foundation  is  in 
commerce,  that  the  Venetians  are  a  nation  of 
shopkeepers,  and  "  you  have  only  come  to  such 
estate  by  reason  of  the  trade  done  by  your  shipping 
in  various  parts  of  the  world/'  Even  in  the  fif- 
teenth century  it  was  deemed  complimentary  to 
say  to  a  newly  elected  Doge,  "  You  have  been  a 
great  trader  in  your  young  days."  The  greatness 
of  Venice  was  coincident  with  the  greatness  of 
her  trade.  She  was  lit,  it  is  true,  with  the 
ancient  stars  of  her  splendour  after  the  mortal 
blow  had  been  struck  at  her  commerce  by  the 

ioo 


A   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

discovery  of  the  Cape  route  to  the  East,  but  the 
old  unity  of  her  strength  had  been  lost  —  the  firm 
foundations  of  the  days  when  the  nobles  of  Venice 
had  been  the  directors  of  her  enterprise.     And  at 
the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  they  no  longer  sat, 
in  their  togas,  behind  the  counters  in  Rialto,  or 
made  the  basements  of  their   houses  into  stores. 
They  had  ceased  to  apprentice  their  sons  to  the 
merchants  on  the  sea-going  galleys.      They  still 
acted  as  commanders  of  the  ships  in  times  of  war, 
but  in  intervals  of  peace  the  gulf  between  noble 
and  merchant  was  constantly  being  enlarged.    The 
commercial    traveller    was    no   longer    considered 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  citizens.     The 
corner  stone  had  been  taken  from  the  building  of 
Rialto  ;  it  had  begun  to  crumble  to  the  dissolution 
lamented  by  Grevembroch  in  his  strange  book  on 
Venetian  costumes.     In  the  great  days  of  Venice 
her  commerce  was  great,  and  she  knew  how  to 
robe  it  in  glory,  how  to  attract  to  it  the  noblest, 
and  not  the  meanest,  of  her  sons.     Her  shops  were 
the    objects   of  her   proudest  solicitude,   and    the 
well-being  of  her  merchants  the  first  of  her  cares. 
The  hostels  provided  for   foreign   traders  ranked 
with  the  most  sumptuous  of  her  palaces,  and  the 
rules  framed  for  their  guidance  were  amongst  the 
most  liberal  in  her  legislature. 


VENICE 

The  calculations  of  Venice,  growing  with  her 
growth,  impressed  on  her  national  consciousness  the 
importance  of  her  position  midway  between  the 
East  and  the  West  —  her  geographical  qualification 
for  becoming  the  mart  of  the  world.  With  steady 
and  concentrated  purpose  she  devoted  her  energy 
to  opening  up  fresh  channels  of  communication. 
Sometimes  by  the  marriage  of  a  son  or  daughter 
of  the  Doge  with  the  heir  of  a  kingdom  or  a 
prince  of  Constantinople,  sometimes  by  the  sub- 
jugation of  a  common  foe,  Venice  wove  new 
threads  of  intercourse  with  the  East.  She  always 
took  payment  for  benefits  she  conferred  in  wider 
trading  advantages.  Her  merchant  vessels  were 
not  private  adventures,  they  represented  state  enter- 
prise and  were  under  the  control  of  the  central 
government,  travelling  with  the  fleet  and  capable 
of  reinforcing  it  at  need.  Seven  merchant  con- 
voys left  Venice  annually  for  Roumania,  Azof, 
Trebizond,  Cyprus,  Armenia,  France,  England, 
Flanders,  Spain,  Portugal  and  Egypt.  By  means 
of  these  vessels  the  glories  of  the  Orient  found 
their  way  to  the  lands  of  the  West ;  Venice  was 
mistress  of  the  treasures  of  Arabia,  and  became 
their  dispenser  to  Europe.  And  she  was  not 
merely  a  mart,  a  counter  of  interchange ;  she 
tested  the  goods  at  their  source ;  she  was  not  at 

[  102  ] 


A    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE 

the  mercy  of  valuers,  her  citizen  travellers  came 
into  touch  with  the  goods  on  the  soil  that  pro- 
duced them.  The  East,  to  which  the  art  of 
Venice  owes  much  of  its  material  —  its  gold,  its 
gems,  its  colours  —  was  not  an  unfathomed  mine 
but,  in  a  certain  sense,  a  pleasure-ground  for  her 
citizens ;  they  passed  to  and  fro  familiarly,  guests 
of  its  greatest  potentates.  They  stood  face  to  face 
with  Cublay  Kaan,  the  monarch  of  mystery. 

The  journeys  of  the  famous  Poli  are  among  the 
most  thrilling  and  significant  records  of  Venetian 
history.  Through  them  we  are  able  to  realise 
something  of  the  Republic's  debt  to  the  lands 
of  the  East  —  a  debt  not  to  be  summed  up  in 
enumeration  of  embroidery  and  jewels  and  per- 
fumes and  secrets  of  colour.  In  part  at  least  it 
consisted  of  legends  and  traditions  that  filtered 
into  Venice  through  the  hearing  and  speech  of 
her  travellers  —  age-old  lessons  in  wisdom,  which 
must  have  invested  some  of  the  common  things  of 
Venetian  life  with  new  meaning  and  done  some- 
thing to  break  down  the  barriers  which  ignorance 
erects  between  man  and  man,  knowledge  and 
knowledge.  In  the  beautiful  Persian  rendering 
of  the  story  of  The  Three  Magi,  as  told  by  Marco 
Polo,  she  came  into  touch  with  comparative  the- 
ology, the  familiar  Christian  tale  drawn  from  an 

[  103  1 


VENICE 

earlier  source.  Marco  Polo  tells  how  he  first 
found  at  Sara  the  beautiful  tombs  of  Jaspar, 
Melchior  and  Balthasar,  with  their  bodies  com- 
pletely preserved  ;  how  the  people  of  that  place 
knew  nothing  of  their  history  save  that  they  were 
the  bodies  of  kings ;  but  three  days'  journey 
onward  he  had  come  to  the  city  of  the  fire- 
worshippers  and  been  informed  of  the  three  who 
had  set  out  to  worship  a  newly  born  Prophet, 
carrying  with  them  gifts  to  test  the  extent  of  his 
powers  —  gold  for  the  earthly  King,  myrrh  for 
the  physician,  incense  for  the  God.  "  And  when 
they  were  come  there  where  the  Child  was  born, 
the  youngest  of  these  three  Kings  went  all  alone 
to  see  the  Child,  and  there  he  found  that  it  was 
like  himself,  for  it  seemed  of  his  age  and  form. 
Then  he  went  out  much  marvelling,  and  after 
him  went  in  the  second  of  the  Kings,  who  was 
near  in  age  to  the  first,  and  the  Child  seemed  to 
him,  as  to  the  first,  of  his  own  form  and  age,  and 
he  also  went  out  much  perplexed.  Then  went  in 
the  third,  who  was  of  great  age,  and  it  happened 
to  him  as  to  the  other  two,  and  he  also  went  out 
very  pensive.  And  when  all  the  Kings  were 
together,  they  told  one  another  what  they  had 
seen ;  and  they  marvelled  much  and  said  they 
would  go  in  all  three  together.  Then  they  went 

[  104  ] 


A    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE 

together  into  the  Child's  presence,  and  they  found 
Him  of  the  likeness  and  age  that  He  really  was, 
for  He  was  only  three  days  old.  Then  they 
adored  Him  and  offered  Him  their  gold  and 
incense  and  myrrh.  The  Child  took  all  their 
offerings  and  gave  them  a  closed  box,  and  then 
the  three  Kings  departed  and  returned  to  their 
country."  Marco  Polo  goes  on  to  relate  how 
the  Kings,  finding  the  box  heavy  to  bear,  sat  down 
by  a  well  to  open  it,  and,  when  they  had  opened 
it,  they  found  only  stones  inside.  These,  in  their 
disappointment,  they  threw  into  the  well  and  lo ! 
from  the  stones  fire  ascended  which  they  gathered 
up  and  took  home  with  them  to  worship.  With 
it  they  burned  all  their  sacrifices,  renewing  it  from 
one  altar  to  another.  Other  tales  he  told  them 
from  the  wisdom  of  the  East — of  the  idealist  who 
found  no  joy  in  earthly  existence,  and  the  chagrin 
of  his  father  the  King,  who  surrounded  him  with 
luxury  and  with  beautiful  maidens,  but  could  not 
persuade  him.  One  day  he  rode  out  on  his  horse 
and  saw  a  dead  man  by  the  way.  And  he  was 
filled  with  horror  at  a  sight  which  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  he  asked  those  who  were  with 
him  the  meaning  of  the  sight,  and  they  told  him 
it  was  a  dead  man.  "  What,"  said  the  son  of  a 
King,  "  then  do  all  men  die  ?  "  Yes,  truly,  they 

[  105  ] 


VENICE 

say.  Then  the  youth  asked  no  more,  but  rode  on 
in  front  in  deep  thought.  And  after  he  had  ridden 
some  way  he  met  a  very  old  man  who  could  not 
walk,  and  who  had  no  teeth,  for  he  had  lost  them 
all  by  reason  of  his  great  age.  And  when  the 
King's  son  saw  the  old  man  he  asked  what  he  was 
and  why  he  could  not  walk,  and  his  companions 
told  him  that  he  could  not  walk  from  age,  and 
that  from  age  he  had  lost  his  teeth.  And  when  the 
King's  son  understood  about  the  dead  man  and  the 
old  man,  he  returned  to  his  palace,  and  said  to 
himself  that  he  would  live  no  longer  in  so  evil  a 
world,  but  that  he  would  go  "  in  search  of  Him 
who  never  dies,  of  Him  who  made  him.  And  so 
he  departed  from  his  father  and  from  the  palace, 
and  went  to  the  mountains,  that  are  very  high  and 
impassable,  and  there  he  lived  all  his  life,  most 
purely  and  chastely,  and  made  great  abstinence, 
for  certainly  if  he  had  been  a  Christian,  he  would 
be  a  great  saint  with  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 
Did  he  find  his  answer  in  the  mountains  ?  Per- 
haps in  some  dawn  or  sunset  he  learned  of  the 
nature  of  "  Him  who  made  him,  of  Him  who 
never  dies  "  ;  perhaps  among  the  wild  creatures 
he  learned  before  he  was  old  to  sing  the  lauds  of 
our  sister  Death.  But  Polo's  comment  on  the 
.story  is  interesting,  for  the  Venetians  would  have 

[  106  ] 


=, 


A    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

little  natural  sympathy  with  its  hero.  They  would 
prefer  Carpaccio's  fairy  prince  who  forsook  his 
kingdom  to  follow  Ursula  and  her  virgins.  The 
tale  of  one  who  dared  not  look  on  life  in  com- 
pany with  his  kind,  would  strike  a  chill  across 
the  full-blooded  natures  of  Venice,  so  eager  to 
grasp  at  all  that  ministered  to  enjoyment  and 
vitality. 

But  Marco's  pack  held  stories  of  a  more  tangible 
kind  —  tales  of  the  Palace  of  Cublay  Kaan,  with  its 
hall  that  held  six  thousand  men,  the  inside  walls 
covered  with  gold  and  silver  and  pictures  of  great 
beasts,  and  the  outside  rainbow-coloured,  shining 
like  crystal  in  the  sun,  and  a  landmark  far  and 
wide.  And  within  the  circuit  of  the  palace  walls 
was  a  green  pleasure  mound  covered  with  trees 
from  all  parts  and  with  a  green  palace  on  its  sum- 
mit. "  And  I  tell  you  that  the  mound  and  the 
trees  and  the  palace  are  so  fair  to  see  that  all  who 
see  them  have  joy  and  gladness,  and  therefore  has 
the  great  Sire  had  them  made,  to  have  that  beauti- 
ful view  and  to  receive  from  it  joy  and  solace.  " 
He  tells  of  the  wonderful  Zecca  where  coins  of 
the  Great  Kaan  are  stamped — not  made  of  metal, 
but  of  black  paper  —  which  may  be  refused  no- 
where throughout  the  Kaan's  dominions  on  pain 
of  death.  All  who  are  possessed  of  gold  and  treas- 

[  109  1 


VENICE 

ure  are  obliged  to  bring  goods  several  times  in  the 
year,  and  receive  coins  of  bark  in  exchange  ;  and 
therefore,  Marco  explains,  "  is  Cublay  richer  than 
all  else  in  the  world.  "  He  describes  the  posting 
system,  the  rich  palaces  built  for  the  housing  of 
messengers,  the  trees  planted  along  the  merchant 
routes  to  act  as  signposts  on  the  road  ;  "  for,  "  he 
says,  "  you  will  find  these  trees  along  the  desert 
way,  and  they  are  a  great  comfort  to  merchant  and 
messenger.  "  Visitors  to  the  chapel  of  San  Gior- 
gio dei  Schiavoni  will  recall  the  use  that  Carpaccio 
has  made  of  these  palm-tree  signposts  in  the  Death 
of  St.  yerome  and  the  Victory  of  St.  George.  Marco 
tells  of  magnificent  feasts  made  by  the  Great  Kaan 
on  his  birthday  and  on  New  Year's  Day.  He  de- 
lights in  stories  of  the  chase  within  the  domain  of 
Cublay's  palace  of  Chandu  (perhaps  the  Xanadu  of 
Coleridge)  the  walls  of  which  enclosed  a  sixteen- 
mile  circuit,  with  fountains  and  rivers  and  lawns 
and  beasts  of  every  kind.  He  describes  in  detail, 
as  of  special  interest  to  his  hearers,  the  size  and 
construction  of  the  rods  of  which  the  Palace  of 
Canes  was  built  and  the  two  hundred  silken  cords 
with  which  it  was  secured  during  the  summer 
months  of  its  existence.  He  speaks  of  the  "  wea- 
ther magic  "  by  which  rain  and  fog  are  warded  off 
from  this  palace  ;  and  of  the  Great  Kaan's  fancy 

[  no] 


A    MERCHANT    OF    VENICE 

that  the  blood  of  a  royal  line  should  not  be  spilt 
upon  the  ground  to  be  seen  of  sun  and  air,  and  of 
his  consequent  device  for  the  murder  of  his  uncle 
Nayan,  whom  he  tossed  to  death  in  a  carpet.  Bau- 
das  (Baghdad),  he  says,  is  the  chief  city  of  the 
Saracens.  A  great  river  flows  through  it  to  the 
Indian  Ocean,  which  may  be  reached  in  eighteen 
days.  The  city  is  full  of  merchants  and  of  traffic  ; 
it  produces  nasich  and  nac  and  cramoisy,  and  gold 
and  silver  brocades  richly  embroidered  with  design 
of  birds  and  of  beasts ;  and  the  woods  of  Bastra, 
between  Baudas  and  the  sea,  produce  the  finest 
dates  in  the  world.  He  recounts  the  taking  of 
this  Baudas  in  the  year  1255  by  Alau,  the  Great 
Kaan's  brother,  who,  when  he  had  taken  it,  discov- 
ered therein  a  tower  belonging  to  the  Caliph  full 
of  gold  and  silver  and  other  treasure,  so  that  there 
never  was  so  much  seen  at  one  time  in  one  place. 
When  Alau  beheld  the  great  heap  of  treasure,  he 
was  amazed  and  sent  for  the  Caliph  into  his  pres- 
ence and  asked  him  why  he  had  amassed  so  great 
a  treasure  and  what  he  had  intended  to  do  with  it. 
"  Did  you  not  know  that  I  was  your  enemy  and 
coming  to  lay  you  waste  ? "  he  demanded.  "  Why, 
therefore,  did  you  not  take  your  treasure  and  give 
it  to  knights  and  soldiers  to  defend  you  and  your 
city  ? "  The  Caliph  replied  nothing,  for  he  did 

[  in  ] 


VENICE 

not  know  what  to  answer.  So  Alaii  continued, 
"  Caliph,  I  see  you  love  your  treasure  so  much,  I 
will  give  you  this  treasure  of  yours  to  eat."  So  he 
had  the  Caliph  shut  up  in  the  tower  and  com- 
manded that  nothing  should  be  given  him  to  eat  or 
drink,  saying,  "  Caliph,  eat  now  as  much  treasure 
as  you  will,  for  you  shall  never  eat  or  drink  any- 
thing else."  And  he  left  the  Caliph  in  the  tower, 
where,  at  the  end  of  four  days,  he  died.  Marco 
must  have  opened  up  to  his  listeners  in  Venice 
horizons  of  lands  almost  comparable  in  extent  to 
the  sea-spaces  familiar  to  their  thoughts  from  in- 
fancy. He  spoke  of  deserts  of  many  days'  journey, 
of  the  port  of  Hormos  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  the  plains  —  a  city  whence  pre- 
cious stones  and  spices  and  cloths  of  silver  and  gold 
brought  by  the  merchants  from  India  were  shipped 
to  all  parts  of  the  world. 

But  the  Poli  brought  more  tangible  trophies 
than  the  most  circumstantial  of  tales  in  their  pack. 
Foolish  artists  might  have  held  themselves  rich 
with  these,  but  the  honour  of  their  family  would 
demand  better  credentials  before  welcoming  fan- 
tastically arrayed  strangers  into  its  bosom.  The 
courtyard  of  the  house  behind  the  Malibran,  at 
which  on  their  return  from  their  travels  they  de- 
manded admission,  is  known  still  as  the  Corte  del 


A    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

Milione,  and  its  walls  are  still  enriched  with  By- 
zantine cornice  and  moulding,  and  with  sculptured 
beasts  as  strange  as  any  to  be  met  with  in  Cublay's 
preserves.  The  three  travellers  had  the  appear- 
ance of  Tartars,  and  from  long  disuse  of  their 
language  they  spoke  in  broken  Italian.  Tradition 
tells  of  the  way  in  which  they  heaped  exploit 
upon  exploit  in  the  attempt  to  convince  their  in- 
credulous relatives  of  their  identity ;  and  at  last, 
according  to  Ramusio,  they  invited  a  number  of 
their  relations  to  a  superb  banquet,  at  which  they 
themselves  appeared  in  long  robes  of  crimson  satin. 
When  the  guests  were  set  down,  these  robes  were 
torn  into  strips  and  distributed  amongst  the  ser- 
vants. Through  various  metamorphoses  of  damask 
and  velvet  they  came  at  last  to  the  common  dresses 
in  which  they  had  arrived.  And  when  the  tables 
were  moved  and  the  servants  had  gone,  Marco,  as 
being  the  youngest,  began  to  rip  up  the  seams  and 
welts  of  these  costumes  and  take  out  from  them 
handfuls  of  rubies  and  sapphires,  carbuncles, 
diamonds  and  emeralds.  There  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  or  delay ;  the  shaggy  tartar  beards 
had  lost  all  their  terrors.  These  men,  who  had 
suddenly  displayed  "infinite  riches  in  a  little 
room,"  must  undoubtedly  be  what  they  claimed 
to  be ;  happy  the  family  to  which  the  magicians 


VENICE 

belonged ;  the  Doge's  Palace  need  not  be  afraid 
to  welcome  them ;  they  must  be  set  high  in  the 
State. 

Yet  the  accumulation  of  treasure  was  by  no 
means  the  most  noteworthy  act  of  their  drama. 
The  Poli  had  been  more  than  mere  traders  ;  from 
the  first  they  had  been  diplomatists  of  a  high  order. 
Their  career  seems  to  give  us  the  key  to  some  of 
the  wonderful  faces  that  appear  in  the  crowds 
pictured  by  Venetian  painters,  especially  those  of 
Carpaccio.  They  are  the  faces  of  men  who  have 
met  the  crisis  of  life  unalarmed,  by  virtue  of  a 
combination  of  daring  and  wisdom  which  is  no 
common  possession.  They  are  not  cold ;  if  they 
are  severe  they  are  full  of  feeling  —  sensitive  to  the 
pathos  and  humour  as  well  as  the  sternness  of  reality. 
The  Poli  had  been  obliged  to  furnish  themselves 
with  patience  in  lands  where  the  transit  of  a  plain 
is  measured  in  weeks ;  three  years'  residence  in  a 
city  of  Persia  is  mentioned  as  a  matter  of  detail. 
We  are  not  told  the  reason  of  delay,  only  that  they 
could  not  go  before  or  behind.  They  had  travelled 
in  the  true  spirit  of  adventure.  On  that  first  journey, 
when  Marco  was  not  of  the  company,  the  Great 
Kaan's  messengers,  who  came  to  request  an  inter- 
view for  their  master,  who  had  never  set  eyes  on  a 
Latin,  had  found  the  two  brothers  open-minded 


A   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

and  trustful.  They  had  acquitted  themselves  well 
in  Cublay's  presence,  answering  all  his  questions 
wisely  and  in  order.  He  had  inquired  as  to  the 
manners  and  customs  of  Europe,  and  particularly  as 
to  Western  methods  of  government  and  the  Chris- 
tian Church  and  its  Head.  He  had  been  "  glad 
beyond  measure "  at  what  he  had  heard  of  the 
deeds  of  the  Latins,  and  decided  to  send  a  request 
to  the  Christian  Apostle  for  one  hundred  men 
learned  in  the  Christian  law  and  the  Seven  Arts 
and  capable  of  teaching  his  people  that  their  house- 
hold gods  were  works  of  the  devil  and  why  the 
faith  of  the  West  was  better  than  theirs.  The 
thought  of  the  lamp  burning  before  the  sepulchre 
of  God  in  Jerusalem  had  stirred  his  imagination, 
and  he  craved  some  of  its  oil  for  the  light  of  his 
temple,  or,  maybe,  his  pleasure  dome.  So  the  two 
Venetians  had  set  out  for  Europe  on  his  strange 
embassy.  They  were  provided  with  a  golden  tablet 
on  which  the  Kaan  had  inscribed  orders  for  the 
supplying  of  their  needs,  food,  horses,  escorts  in 
all  the  countries  through  which  they  should  pass. 
At  the  end  of  three  years,  after  long  delays  on 
account  of  the  snows,  they  arrived  at  the  port  of 
Layas  in  Armenia,  and  from  Layas  they  had  come 
to  Acre  in  April  of  the  year  1269.  At  Acre  they 
had  found  that  Pope  Clement  IV  was  dead,  and  no 


VENICE 

new  election  had  as  yet  been  made.  Venetian 
history  teems  with  dramatic  situations,  but  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  any  stranger  than  that  in  which 
the  Polo  brothers  now  found  themselves  placed. 
Merchants  of  Venice,  they  came  as  ambassadors 
from  the  Lord  of  All  the  Tartars  to  demand 
missionaries  from  the  Father  of  Christendom, 
who  was  not  able  to  supply  them  because  he  was 
not  in  existence.  In  their  dilemma  at  Acre  they 
consulted  Theobald  of  Piacenza,  Legate  of  Egypt, 
who  advised  them  to  await  the  new  Pope's  election 
and  meanwhile  to  return  to  their  homes.  His 
advice  was  accepted,  and  the  two  brothers  made 
their  way  onwards  to  Venice,  where  one  of  them, 
Nicolas,  discovered  his  son,  young  Marco,  a  lad  of 
fifteen  years  old.  They  remained  in  Venice  for 
two  years,  but  when,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  no 
Pope  had  yet  been  elected,  the  brothers  felt  their 
return  to  the  Kaan  could  be  deferred  no  longer. 
There  is  something  touching  in  their  fidelity  to 
the  pledge  they  had  given  and  the  constancy  of 
their  merchant  faith.  They  prepared  to  set  out 
again.  This  time  little  Marco  went  with  them  on 
an  absence  that  lasted  for  seventeen  years,  and  was 
to  gather  a  greater  treasure  for  the  world  than  any 
diamonds  and  rubies  and  velvets  to  be  prodigally 
scattered  on  the  floor  of  the  Corte  del  Milione. 
At  Acre  they  obtained  Theobald's  permission  to 

[  "6  ] 


A    MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

fetch  some  of  the  holy  oil  desired  by  the  Kaan 
from  Jerusalem.  The  journey  to  Jerusalem  per- 
formed, they  returned  once  more  to  Acre,  and 
finally  set  forth  on  their  return  journey  to  the 
Kaan  with  a  letter  from  Theobald  testifying  that 
they  had  done  all  in  their  power,  "  but  since  there 
was  no  Apostle,  they  could  not  carry  the  embassy." 
But  when  they  had  gone  as  far  on  their  journey  as 
Layas,  they  were  followed  by  letters  from  Theobald, 
who  was  now  Pope  Gregory  of  Piacenza,  begging 
their  return.  They  complied  with  great  joy  and 
set  sail  for  Acre  in  a  galley  provided  for  their  use 
by  the  King  of  Armenia.  This  was  the  hour  of 
their  triumph,  for  they  were  received  by  the  Pope 
with  great  honour,  given  costly  presents  for  the 
Kaan,  and  provided  with  two  friars  of  very  great 
learning.  The  names  of  these  two  are  possibly 
better  withheld,  for  they  were  more  learned  than 
courageous.  When  they  had  come  as  far  on  their 
journey  as  Layas,  their  incipient  fears  of  the  land 
of  the  Tartars  were  wrought  to  a  pitch  by  the  sight 
of  the  Saracen  Army  which  was  being  brought 
against  Armenia  by  the  Sultan  of  Babylon,  and 
they  insisted  on  handing  their  credentials  over 
to  the  Poli  and  returning  at  once  to  Italy.  And 
the  brothers  were  forced  to  go  on  their  way  with 
worse  than  no  preachers  of  their  faith,  with  tidings 
of  their  defection. 


VENICE 

For  three  and  a  half  years  they  journeyed  on, 
detained  often  by  floods  and  bad  weather.  The 
news  of  their  coming  travelled  before  them  to  the 
Kaan,  and  he  sent  his  servants  forty  days'  journey 
to  meet  them.  The  Kaan  received  them  with  joy, 
was  graciously  pleased  with  the  letters  and  cre- 
dentials sent  by  the  Pope,  and  accepted  young 
Marco  as  his  liegeman  and  responsible  messenger. 
Marco  sped  well  in  learning  the  language,  customs 
and  writing  of  the  Tartars,  but  it  is  clear  he  must 
have  acquired  other  than  scholastic  accomplish- 
ments. He  was  endowed  with  tact  and  power  of 
observation,  and  returned  from  his  first  embassy 
full  of  news  of  the  men  and  customs  he  had 
encountered ;  "  for  he  had  seen  on  several  occa- 
sions that  when  the  messengers  the  Great  Kaan 
had  sent  into  various  parts  of  the  world  returned 
and  told  him  the  results  of  the  embassy  on  which 
they  had  gone,  and  could  tell  him  no  other  news 
of  the  countries  where  they  had  been,  the  Kaan 
said  they  were  ignorant  fools."  For  seventeen 
years  young  Messer  Marco  was  employed  in  con- 
tinual coming  and  going.  He  was  learned  in 
many  strange  and  hidden  things,  and  was  placed 
in  honour  high  above  the  barons  —  the  darling  of 
Cublay's  heart.  Again  and  again  the  three  Vene- 
tians asked  for  leave  of  absence  to  visit  their 

[  "8  1 


A    MERCHANT    OF   VENICE 

country,  but  so  great  was  the  love  Cublay  bore  to 
them  that  he  could  not  bear  to  be  parted  from 
them  ;  until  at  last  an  embassy  arrived  from  Argon, 
King  of  Levant,  asking  for  a  new  wife  of  the 
lineage  of  his  dead  wife  Bolgana,  and  the  Khan  is 
persuaded  by  Argon's  messengers  to  allow  Marco 
and  his  two  uncles  to  depart  with  them  in  charge 
of  the  lady.  They  set  out  by  sea,  and  after  some 
twenty  months'  sailing  and  many  disasters  arrived 
at  their  destination.  King  Argon  was  dead,  and 
the  lady  Cocachin  was  bestowed  on  his  son.  Of 
the  six  hundred  followers  who  had  set  out  with 
them  on  their  journey  only  eighteen  had  survived  it. 
Their  mission  accomplished,  the  Poli  made  their 
way  to  Trebizond,  from  Trebizond  to  Constanti- 
nople and  from  Constantinople  to  Venice.  This 
was  in  the  year  1295. 

And  how  would  Venice,  the  place  of  his  birth, 
reveal  herself  to  Marco,  now  he  had  seen  so 
many  wonders  and  glories  in  distant  lands  ?  We 
may  imagine  the  sun  to  have  been  setting  as  the 
travellers  turned  into  the  Lido  port,  dropping  a 
globe  of  molten  fire  vast  and  mysterious  through 
the  haze,  while  the  last  dim  rays  gleamed  golden 
on  the  windows  of  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni. 
Venice  lay  among  her  waters,  blue  and  glittering, 
interspersed  with  jewelled  marsh.  The  last  gulls 


VENICE 

of  those  that  so  gallantly  had  dipped  and  sailed  all 
day  upon  the  water  were  flying  home,  their  breasts 
and  wings  radiant  in  the  level  sunlight  round  the 
home-coming  ship.  Many  citizens  of  Venice 
must  have  been  at  the  Lido  port,  thronging  to 
meet  the  merchant  vessels,  to  greet  their  friends 
or  to  have  news  of  them  from  others.  But  none 
came  to  meet  these  three  travellers ;  alone  they 
embarked  in  a  gondola  bearing  their  cargo  with 
them.  Venice  had  clothed  herself  in  all  her  beauty 
to  give  them  welcome.  Which  of  Cublay's  glories 
could  rival  this  splendour  of  the  lagoon  with  its 
countless  treasures  of  light?  The  marsh  lay  in  un- 
equal patches,  each  outlined  with  a  luminous  silver 
rim  —  a  magic  carpet  of  dusky  olive,  threaded 
with  strands  of  radiant  azure  and  sprinkled  with 
ruby  and  amethyst.  As  their  gondola  moved 
slowly  down  towards  the  city,  the  boats  of  the 
night  fishers  passed  with  the  silence  of  shadows 
between  them  and  the  glow.  And  when  here  and 
there  a  fisher  alighted  on  the  marsh  or  moved 
across  it  like  a  spirit  stepping  on  the  waters,  he 
must  have  seemed  to  Marco  the  very  memory  and 
renewal  of  those  strange  Eastern  stories  of  which 
his  mind  was  full.  So,  under  the  mystic  glow  of 
the  desert,  he  had  seen  figures  of  the  caravan  rise 
and  move  against  the  tinted  haze  of  the  oasis. 

[  122  ] 


A   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE 

Onwards  glided  the  boat  towards  the  Basin  of  San 
Marco  —  westward  the  luminous  wonder  of  lagoon 
and  marsh,  and  a  cold,  clear  intensity  of  stirring 
water  to  the  east.  And  as  they  drew  nearer  and 
ever  nearer,  our  travellers'  hearts  beat  high  with 
the  wonders  of  the  city  of  their  birth.  The 
stars  were  piercing  the  night  sky  in  countless 
numbers  :  the  yellow  lights  of  the  city  quivered 
along  the  Riva :  the  masts  of  the  fishing-fleet 
swung  clear  against  the  pale  western  glow  in  the 
waterway  of  the  Giudecca  :  the  flowing  tide  wound 
silver  coils  about  the  black  shadows  of  their  hulls. 
Past  the  Dogana,  keystone  of  Venice  to  the  East- 
ern traveller,  their  little  boat  moved  down  the 
quiet  waters  of  the  Grand  Canal,  deep  into  the 
heart  of  that  great  shadowy  city,  apparent  Queen 
over  all  the  glories  of  the  Cities  of  the  East. 


[  123  ] 


Chapter  Sbij: 

VENICE   OF   CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 


1 


story  of  Venice  and  the  Crusades  forms 
one  of  the  most  interesting  pages  of  her 
history  in  relation  to  the  East.  The 
gradual  awakening  of  her  consciousness  to  the  fact 
that  the  pilgrimages  to  the  Holy  Land  might  be 
of  close  significance  to  herself  culminates  in  her 
attitude  towards  the  great  Fourth  Crusade  at  the 
opening  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  Crusades 
were,  in  fact,  a  commercial  speculation  for  Venice, 
but  a  speculation  into  which  she  infused  all  the 
vitality  and  fulness  of  her  nature.  And  she  be- 
came, not  merely  a  place  of  passage  for  the  East, 
but  a  superb  depository  of  relics  to  detain  pilgrims 
on  their  outward  way ;  a  hostel  so  royally  fitted 
with  food  for  their  senses,  their  religious  cravings 
and  their  mystic  imaginings,  that  one  and  another 
may  well  have  been  beguiled  into  delaying  their 
departure  for  more  strenuous  sanctities.  The  nar- 
ratives of  the  pilgrims,  with  their  enthusiasms, 
their  details  of  relics,  their  records  of  Venetian 
ceremonies,  religious,  commercial  or  domestic, 

[  124  ] 


CRUSADE    AND    PILGRIMAGE 

coloured  by  their  quaintly  intimate  personal  im- 
pressions, form  one  of  the  most  picturesque  pages 
of  Venetian  chronicle. 

Pietro  Casola,  a  Milanese  pilgrim  of  the  late 
fifteenth  century,  gives  us  a  picture  of  a  city  that 
is  sumptuous  and  rich  in  all  its  dealings,  yet  per- 
vaded by  a  harmony  and  decorum  that  has  stamped 
itself  on  the  face  of  each  individual  citizen.  We 
feel  that  Pietro  Casola  has  really  had  a  vision  of 
the  meaning  of  Venice,  when,  among  the  inven- 
tory of  wonders  of  the  Mass  for  the  pilgrims  on 
Corpus  Christi  day,  of  the  velvets,  crimson  and 
damask  and  scarlet,  the  cloth  of  gold  and  togas 
sweeping  the  ground,  each  finer  than  the  last,  he 
pauses  to  add,  "  There  was  great  silence,  greater 
than  is  ever  observed  at  such  festivals,  even  in  the 
gathering  of  so  many  Venetian  gentlemen,  so  that 
you  could  hear  everything.  And  it  seemed  to 
me  that  everything  was  ruled  by  one  alone,  who 
was  obeyed  by  each  man  without  resistance.  And 
at  this  I  wondered  greatly,  for  never  had  I  seen  so 
great  obedience  at  such  spectacles."  In  the  record 
of  this  arresting  impression,  more  even  than  in  the 
description  of  many  coloured  drapery  and  white 
cloths  spread  on  the  piazza,  of  the  groves  of  oak- 
trees  bordering  the  route  of  the  procession  and  the 
candles  lit  among  them,  we  seem  to  see  before  us 


VENICE 

the  rhythmic  solemnity  of  that  unique  Procession 
on  the  Piazza  of  Gentile  Bellini.  We  need  only 
Casola's  other  observant  characterisation  of  the 
Venetian  gentleman  to  complete  the  picture.  "  I 
have  considered,"  he  says,  "  the  quality  of  these 
Venetian  gentlemen,  who  for  the  most  part  are 
fair  men  and  tall,  astute  and  most  subtle  in  their 
dealings ;  and  you  must  needs,  if  you  would  treat 
with  them,  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open.  They 
are  proud ;  I  think  it  is  on  account  of  their  great 
rule.  And  when  a  son  is  born  to  a  Venetian,  they 
say  among  themselves,  '  A  Signor  is  born  into  the 
world.'  In  their  way  of  living  at  home  they  are 
sparing  and  very  modest ;  outside  they  are  very 
liberal.  The  city  of  Venice  retains  its  old  manner 
of  dress,  and  they  never  change  it ;  that  is  to  say, 
they  wear  a  long  garment  of  whatever  colour  they 
choose.  No  one  ever  goes  out  by  day  without  his 
toga,  and  for  the  most  part  a  black  one,  and  they 
have  carried  this  custom  to  such  a  point  that  all  na- 
tions of  the  world  who  are  lodging  here  in  Venice, 
from  the  greatest  to  the  least,  observe  this  style, 
beginning  from  the  gentlemen  to  the  mariners 
and  galleymen  ;  a  dress  certainly  full  of  confidence 
and  gravity.  They  look  like  doctors  of  law,  and 
if  any  were  to  appear  outside  his  house  without  his 
toga  he  would  be  thought  a  fool."  Without  doors 

[  126  ] 


THE  SHADOW  OK  THE  CAMPANILE. 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

the  women  also  belonged  to  this  sober  company, 
or  at  least  the  marriageable  maidens  and  those 
who  were  no  longer  of  the  number  of  the  "  belle 
giovani "  ;  so  sombrely  were  they  covered  when 
outside  their  houses,  and  especially  in  church,  that 
Casola  says  he  at  first  mistook  them  all  for  widows, 
or  nuns  of  the  Benedictine  Order.  But  for  the 
"  belle  giovani  "  it  is  another  matter  ;  they  give  re- 
lief to  the  week-day  sobriety  of  these  Venetians,  so 
decorous  and  black  when  off  duty,  though  revelling 
in  such  richness  of  velvet  and  brocade  when  the 
trumpet  of  a  public  function  stirs  their  blood. 

We  are  indebted  to  Casola  for  a  picture  of  a 
Venetian  domestic  festival  at  the  birth  of  a  child  to 
the  Delfini  family.  He  realised  fully  that  he  was 
admitted,  together  with  the  orator  of  the  King  of 
France,  in  order  that  he  might  act  as  reporter  of 
Venetian  magnificence.  It  was  in  a  room  "  whose 
chimney-piece  was  all  of  Carrara  marble  shining  as 
gold,  so  subtly  worked  with  figures  and  leaves,  that 
Praxiteles  and  Pheidias  could  not  have  exceeded  it. 
The  ceiling  of  the  room  was  so  finely  decorated 
with  gold  and  ultramarine,  and  the  walls  so  richly 
worked,  that  I  cannot  make  report  of  it.  One 
desk  alone  was  valued  at  five  hundred  ducats,  and 
the  fixtures  of  the  room  were  in  the  Venetian  style, 
such  beautiful  and  natural  figures,  so  much  gold 

9  [  129  ] 


VENICE 

everywhere,  that  I  know  not  if  in  the  time  of 
Solomon,  who  was  King  of  the  Jews,  when  silver 
was  reputed  more  vile  than  carrion,  there  was  such 
abundance  as  was  here  seen.  Of  the  ornaments  of 
the  bed  and  of  the  lady  ...  I  have  thought  best 
rather  to  keep  silence  than  to  speak  for  fear  I 
should  not  be  believed.  Another  thing  I  will 
speak  the  truth  about,  and  perhaps  I  shall  not  be 
believed  —  a  matter  in  which  the  ducal  orator 
would  not  let  me  lie.  There  were  in  the  said 
room  twenty-five  Venetian  damsels,  each  one  fairer 
than  the  last,  who  were  come  to  visit  the  lady  who 
had  borne  a  child.  Their  dress  was  most  discreet, 
as  I  said  above,  alia  <veneziana :  they  showed  no 
more  than  four  to  six  finger  breadths  of  bare  neck 
below  their  shoulders  back  and  front.  These  dam- 
sels had  so  many  jewels  on  their  heads  and  round 
their  necks  and  on  their  hands  —  namely,  gold, 
precious  stones  and  pearls  —  that  it  was  the  opinion 
of  those  who  were  there  that  they  were  worth 
a  hundred  thousand  ducats.  Their  faces  were  su- 
perbly painted,  and  so  also  the  rest  of  them  that 
was  bare. "  The  account  of  this  sumptuous  inte- 
rior is  peculiarly  valuable  when  we  realise  the  date 
to  which  it  belongs,  the  period  of  the  first  greatness 
of  Venetian  Art,  a  period  which  has  been  some- 
times regarded  as  one  of  almost  naive  simplicity. 

[  130  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

Casola,  with  his  customary  exactitude,  dwells  on 
the  frugality  of  Venetian  gentlemen  in  the  matter 
of  food  —  a  frugality  that  caused  the  guest  to  re- 
flect that  the  Venetians  cared  more  to  feed  the  eye 
than  the  palate.  It  was  not  yet  the  period  of  the 
sumptuous  living  deplored  by  Calmo  only  half  a 
century  later. 

Casola  was  a  more  secularly  minded  pilgrim 
than  the  priest  of  Florence,  Ser  Michele,  who  paid 
five  visits  to  the  bones  of  the  Holy  Innocents  at 
Murano,  and  only  at  the  fifth  visit  was  counted 
worthy,  as  he  humbly  deemed,  to  see  the  relics : 
Providence,  in  the  form  of  the  sacristan,  having 
till  then  failed  him.  The  more  festive  Casola  — 
who  paid  repeated  visits  to  Rialto,  "  which  seemed 
to  be  the  source  of  all  the  gardens  in  the  world, " 
who  spent  one  day  in  vain  attempts  to  count  the 
multitudinous  boats  in  and  about  the  city,  and  who 
was  so  frivolous,  for  all  his  long  white  beard,  as  to 
buy  a  false  front  on  the  piazza  —  in  the  midst  of 
his  expatiations  on  the  Venetian  maidens,  pulls  him- 
self suddenly  together  with  a  sense  of  incongruity 
between  his  diversions  and  his  goal,  and  shakes 
himself  free  from  the  allurements  of  Venice,  cry- 
ing :  "  But  I  am  a  priest,  in  the  way  of  the  saints ; 
I  did  not  try  to  look  into  their  lives  any  further. 
To  me  it  seemed  better,  as  I  have  said  above,  to  go 


VENICE 

in  search  of  the  churches  and  monasteries  and  to 
see  the  relics  of  which  there  are  so  many.  And 
this  seemed  to  me  a  good  work  for  a  pilgrim  who 
was  awaiting  the  departure  of  the  vessel  to  go  to 
the  Holy  Sepulchre,  bringing  the  time  to  an  end 
as  well  as  he  could."  In  the  Accademia  at  Venice 
there  is  a  curious  little  painting,  attributed  to  Car- 
paccio,  of  the  assembly  of  the  martyrs  of  Mount 
Ararat  in  the  Church  of  Sant'  Antonio  di  Castello, 
which  stood  once  on  the  site  of  the  Public  Gardens. 
It  was  a  familiar  sight  for  Venice,  the  dedication  of 
pilgrims  that  is  represented  here  ;  and  there  is  a 
strange  pathos  in  the  slim,  small  figures  as  they 
move  in  two  lines  half-wavering  up  the  aisle,  each 
wearing  a  crown  of  thorns,  perhaps  in  prophecy  of 
coming  martyrdom.  They  are  not  marching  con- 
fidently to  victory  like  an  army  ;  their  crosses  are 
held  at  all  angles,  forming  errant  patterns  among 
themselves.  Some  are  girt  for  their  journey  in 
short  vestments  under  their  long  robes.  It  is  curi- 
ously unlike  a  procession  native  to  the  city  ;  there 
is  a  dreamlike,  mystic  quality  about  it  and  a  lack 
of  body  in  its  motion  which  is  enhanced,  perhaps, 
by  the  extreme  detail  with  which  the  interior  of 
the  church  is  transcribed  —  the  models  of  vessels 
in  the  rafters  ;  the  votive  limbs  and  bones  hung  on 
the  wooden  screen,  offerings  of  the  diseased  cured 

[  132  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

by  miracle,  as  they  may  be  seen  in  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo  to-day  ;  the  coiled  rope  of  the  lamp-pulley  ; 
the  board  with  a  church  notice  printed  on  it ;  and 
everywhere,  winding  in  and  out  of  the  picture, 
seen  through  the  portal  of  entrance,  disappearing 
behind  the  sanctuary  screen,  the  interminable  pro- 
cession of  the  ten  thousand  little  pilgrims. 

In  1 198  the  lords  of  France  flocked  with  enthu- 
siasm to  a  crusade  preached  by  Foulques  de  Nuilly 
under  the  authority  of  Innocent  III.  After  much 
discussion  of  practical  ways  and  means,  with  which 
they  were  less  amply  provided  than  with  spiritual 
enthusiasm,  they  made  choice  of  six  ambassadors 
who  should  procure  the  necessities  of  the  enter- 
prise, Jofroi  de  Villeharduin,  Mareschal  of  Cham- 
pagne, Miles  li  Brabant,  Coe'ns  de  Bethune,  Alars 
Magnarians,  Jean  de  Friaise,and  Gautiers  de  Gaudon- 
ville.  Venice  was  decided  on  by  them  as  the  State 
most  likely  to  provide  what  they  stood  in  need  of 
—  ships  for  the  journey  —  and  they  departed  to 
sound  the  mind  of  the  Republic,  arriving  in  the 
first  week  of  Lent  in  the  year  1201.  Venice,  in 
the  person  of  the  Doge,  Henry  Dandolo,  opened 
the  negotiations ;  the  messengers  were  made  to 
feel  it  was  no  light  thing  they  asked.  They  were 
received  and  lodged  with  highest  honour,  but 
they  were  made  to  wait  for  a  Council  to  assemble, 


VENICE 

which  should  consider  the  matter  of  their  request. 
After  some  days  they  were  admitted  to  the  Ducal 
Palace  to  deliver  their  message  ;  and  its  purport 
was  this :  "  Sir,  we  are  come  to  you  from  the  high 
barons  of  France  who  have  taken  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  to  avenge  the  shame  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  to 
conquer  Jerusalem  if  God  will  grant  it  them  ;  and 
because  they  know  that  no  people  have  such 
power  as  you  and  your  people,  they  pray  you  for 
God's  sake  to  have  pity  on  the  land  over  seas  and 
the  avenging  of  the  shame  of  Jesus  Christ,  so  that 
they  may  have  ships  and  the  other  things  neces- 
sary." The  spiritual  and  sentimental  appeal  is 
left  unanswered  by  the  Doge.  He  asks  simply, 
"  In  what  way  ? "  "  In  all  ways,"  say  the  mes- 
sengers, "  that  you  recommend  or  advise,  which 
they  would  be  able  to  fulfil."  Again  the  Doge 
expresses  wonder  at  the  magnitude  of  what  they 
ask,  bidding  them  not  marvel  if  another  eight 
days'  waiting  is  required  of  them  before  the  final 
answer  can  be  given.  At  the  date  fixed  by  the 
Doge  they  returned  to  the  Palace.  Villeharduin 
excuses  himself  from  telling  all  the  words  that 
were  said  and  unsaid,  but  the  gist  of  the  Doge's 
offer  was  this,  that  it  depended  on  the  consent  of 
the  Great  Council  and  the  rest  of  the  Republic. 
Venice  should  provide  vessels  of  transport  for  four 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

thousand  five  hundred  horses  and  squires  and 
twenty  thousand  foot  soldiers,  and  viands  to  last 
the  whole  company  nine  months.  The  agree- 
ment was  to  hold  good  for  a  year  from  the  time 
of  starting,  and  the  sum  total  of  the  provision  was 
to  be  eighty-five  thousand  marks.  But  Venice 
would  go  further,  for  the  love  of  God,  and  launch 
fifty  galleys  at  her  own  expense  on  condition  of 
receiving  the  half  of  all  the  conquests  that  were 
made  by  land  and  sea.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
win  the  consent  of  the  Great  Council  and  ask  a 
formal  ratification  from  the  people.  Full  ten 
thousand  persons  assemble  in  "  the  chapel  of  San 
Marco,  the  fairest  that  ever  was,"  and  the  Doge 
recommends  them  to  hear  the  Mass,  and  to  pray 
God's  counsel  concerning  the  request  of  the  en- 
voys. It  will  be  seen  that  all  is  practically  accom- 
plished before  the  question  is  put  to  the  people  or 
God's  grace  asked  on  the  undertaking,  but  no 
item  of  the  formality  is  omitted.  The  envoys  are 
sent  for  by  the  Doge  that  they  may  themselves  re- 
peat their  request  humbly  before  the  people,  and 
they  came  into  the  church  "  much  stared  at  by  the 
crowd  who  had  never  seen  them."  Again  the  ap- 
peal is  made,  Jofroi  de  Villeharduin  taking  up  the 
word  by  the  agreement  and  desire  of  the  other  en- 
voys. We  can  picture  the  strange  thrill  that  ran 


VENICE 

through  the  great  multitude  as  that  single  voice 
broke  the  silence  of  St.  Mark's  with  its  burden 
of  passionate  tribute  to  the  greatness  of  Venice  : 
" '  Therefore  have  they  chosen  you  because  they 
know  that  no  people  accustomed  to  going  on  the 
seas  have  such  power  as  you  and  your  people ;  and 
they  commanded  us  to  throw  ourselves  at  your 
feet  and  not  to  rise  until  you  had  consented  to 
have  pity  on  the  Holy  Land  beyond  the  seas.' 
Now  the  six  messengers  knelt,  weeping  bitterly, 
and  the  Doge  and  all  the  others  cried  out  with 
one  voice  and  raised  their  hands  on  high  and  said, 
'  We  grant  it,  we  grant  it.'  And  the  noise  and 
tumult  and  lament  of  it  were  so  great  that  never 
had  any  man  known  a  greater."  Then  the  Doge 
himself  mounted  the  lectern  and  put  before  the 
people  the  meaning  of  the  alliance  that  had  been 
sought  with  them  in  preference  to  all  other 
peoples  by  "the  best  men  of  the  world."  "I 
cannot  tell  you,"  says  Villeharduin,  "  all  the  good 
and  fair  words  that  the  Doge  spoke.  At  last  the 
matter  was  ended,  and  the  following  day  the  char- 
ters were  drawn  up  and  made  and  sealed." 

The  time  of  gathering  for  the  pilgrims  was 
fixed  for  the  following  year  1202,  at  the  feast  of 
St.  John,  and  amid  many  tears  of  piety  and  devo- 
tion the  Doge  and  deputies  swore  to  abide  by  their 

[  136  1 


THE   CLOCK   TOWER    FROM   GALLERY   OF   SAN    MARCO. 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

charters,  and  the  envoys  of  both  parties  set  out  for 
Rome  to  receive  the  confirmation  of  their  cove- 
nant from  Innocent  III.  But  the  drama  which 
had  begun  amid  such  moving  demonstrations  of 
good  will  and  Christian  sentiment  necessarily  had 
its  dilemmas  and  its  complications.  It  was  essen- 
tial to  the  fulfilling  of  the  pact  that  all  the  cru- 
saders should  assemble  at  Venice  to  pay  their  toll, 
and  embark  on  the  ships ;  otherwise  the  crusaders 
could  not  hope  to  provide  the  money  due  to  the 
Venetians.  The  Republic,  for  its  part,  had  amply 
fulfilled  its  compact.  All  who  arrived  were  re- 
ceived with  joy  and  lodged  most  honourably  at 
San  Nicolo  del  Lido.  The  chronicle  can  find  no 
parallel  for  the  richness  of  the  provision  made  for 
the  would-be  crusaders.  But  there  were,  alas,  three 
times  as  many  vessels  as  there  were  men  and  horses 
to  fill  them.  — "  Ha !  it  was  a  great  shame," 
bursts  out  Villeharduin,  "  that  the  rest  who  went 
to  the  other  ports  did  not  come  here."  The 
dilemma  was  a  serious  one.  Even  of  those  who 
were  there,  some  declared  themselves  unable  to 
pay  their  passage,  and  the  money  could  in  no  way 
be  made  up.  Some  were  for  sacrificing  their 
whole  estate  that  the  Venetians  should  not  lose  by 
the  defection  of  the  others,  but  the  counsel  found 
small  support  among  those  who  now  wished  to  be 

[  139  1 


VENICE 

rid  of  their  bargain.  But  the  small  party  who  felt 
themselves,  in  a  sense,  the  conscience  of  the  Cru- 
sade carried  the  day.  "  Rather  will  we  give  all  we 
possess  and  go  poor  among  the  host,  than  that  it 
should  disperse  and  come  to  naught ;  for  God  will 
render  it  to  us  at  His  good  pleasure."  So  the 
Counts  of  Flanders,  Loys,  Hues  de  St.  Pol  and 
their  party  began  to  collect  together  all  their  goods 
and  all  they  could  borrow.  "Then  you  might 
have  seen  a  vast  quantity  of  gold  and  silver  borne 
to  the  palace  of  the  Doge  to  make  payment.  And 
when  they  had  paid,  there  still  was  lacking  from 
the  covenant  thirty-four  thousand  marks  of  silver. 
And  those  who  had  kept  back  what  they  possessed 
and  would  give  nothing  were  very  glad  at  this,  for 
by  this  means  they  thought  the  expedition  would 
have  failed.  But  God  who  counsels  the  disconso- 
late would  not  so  suffer  it."  The  Doge  put  before 
his  people  that  not  only  would  their  just  claim 
remain  unsatisfied  though  they  should  exact  from 
the  crusaders  the  utmost  they  could  collect,  but 
they  would  bring  discredit  on  themselves  by  acting 
as  strict  justice  would  permit.  He  suggested  the 
combining  of  two  advantages,  a  material  and 
moral.  Let  them,  he  suggests,  demand  the  recon- 
quest  of  Zara  as  substitute  for  the  debt,  that  they 
may  not  only  have  the  fame  of  possessing  the  city 

[  140  ] 


CRUSADE    AND    PILGRIMAGE 

but  the  praise  of  generosity.  And  Dandolo,  the 
old  wise  doughty  Doge,  has  yet  another  suggestion 
to  propose.  There  was  a  great  festival  one  Sunday 
in  San  Marco,  and  the  citizens  and  barons  and  pil- 
grims were  assembled  before  High  Mass  began. 
Then  amid  the  silent  expectation  of  the  great 
gathering  the  Doge  mounted  the  lectern  and  made 
the  famous  offer  of  his  own  person  as  leader  of 
the  host.  " '  I  am  an  old  man,'  he  said,  '  and 
feeble,  and  should  be  feeling  need  of  repose,  for  I 
am  infirm  in  body.  But  I  see  there  is  none  who 
could  so  well  rule  and  lead  you  as  I  who  am  your 
lord.  If  you  will  consent  that  I  take  the  sign  of 
the  Cross  to  preserve  and  guide  you,  and  that  my 
son  remain  in  my  stead  and  keep  the  city,  I  would 
gladly  go  to  live  and  die  with  you  and  with  the 
pilgrims.'  And  when  they  heard,  they  cried  all 
with  one  voice :  '  We  pray  you  for  God's  sake  to 
grant  us  this,  and  to  do  so  and  to  come  with  us.' 
And  the  people  of  the  city  and  the  pilgrims,  felt 
deep  compassion  at  this,  and  they  wept  many  tears, 
thinking  how  that  valiant  man  had  so  much  need 
to  stay  behind,  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and  though 
his  eyes  were  still  fair  to  look  on  he  could  not  see 
with  them  on  account  of  a  wound  which  he  had 
received  in  his  head.  Nevertheless  he  had  a  great 
heart.  Ha !  how  little  they  resembled  him  who 

[  HI  ] 


VENICE 

had  gone  to  other  ports  to  avoid  danger !  So  he 
came  from  the  pulpit  and  went  to  the  altar  and 
knelt  down,  weeping  bitterly,  and  they  sewed  the 
cross  for  him  on  a  great  cotton  cap  because  he 
desired  that  the  people  might  see  it.  And  the 
Venetians  began  to  take  the  cross  in  great  numbers, 
and  many  on  that  very  day,  and  still  the  number 
of  crusaders  was  few  enough."  It  was  no  wonder 
that  the  pilgrims  had  great  joy  in  the  crusaders  for 
the  good  will  and  valour  they  felt  to  be  in  them. 
Whatever  aim  may  previously  have  been  upper- 
most as  an  incentive  to  enthusiasm  and  self- 
oblation,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Venice  now  was 
giving  of  her  best.  This  retiring  of  the  old  Doge 
from  his  ducal  throne  to  embark  on  a  more  ardu- 
ous leadership  is  one  of  the  most  moving  episodes 
in  the  annals  San  Marco. 

But  at  this  moment  an  event  occurred  that 
changed,  or  rather  diverted  into  a  new  channel 
the  current  of  the  Crusade,  providing  in  fact,  as 
our  chronicler  Villeharduin  remarks,  the  true  occa- 
sion of  his  book.  Into  the  midst  of  the  pilgrims 
assembled  at  Verona  on  their  way  to  Venice  there 
came  Alexius,  son  of  Isaac  the  deposed  Emperor 
of  Constantinople,  in  quest  of  help  against  his 
usurping  uncle.  What  more  opportune  than  the 
neighbouring  host  of  "  the  most  valiant  men  on 

[  142  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

earth "  for  aiding  in  the  recovery  of  his  lost 
kingdom  and  the  reinstatement  of  his  tortured 
father.  To  the  crusaders,  and  especially  we  may 
believe,  to  the  Venetians,  this  new  motive  did  not 
come  amiss.  It  is  startlingly  like  life,  this  Fourth 
Crusade,  with  its  original  aim  thus  gradually  be- 
coming but  a  secondary  purpose  in  a  far  more 
complicated  scheme,  a  middle  distance  in  an 
increasingly  extended  horizon.  The  relief  of 
the  Holy  Sepulchre,  the  avenging  of  the  shame 
of  Christ,  assume  in  fact  a  rather  shadowy  outline 
in  a  prospect  dominated  by  Zara  and  Constan- 
tinople. 

The  departure  from  Venice  did  not  mark  the 
term  of  the  obstructions  to  which  the  Crusade  was 
fated.  The  disgraceful  contest  between  the  French 
and  the  Venetians  within  the  streets  of  Zara,  the 
defection  of  a  number  of  the  pilgrims,  the  death 
of  others  at  the  hands  of  the  wild  inland  inhabi- 
tants of  Dalmatia  —  all  these  causes  reduced  the 
already  meagre  company  before  it  had  well  started 
on  its  way.  The  Pope  was  placed  in  the  dilemma 
of  strongly  disapproving  the  secular  turn  given  to 
the  Crusade,  while  realising  that  the  Venetian  fleet 
was  the  only  means  for  accomplishing  his  ends  in 
Palestine.  His  solution  was  to  absolve  the  barons 
for  the  siege  of  Zara,  permitting  them  still  to  use 

[  143  1 


VENICE 

the  fleet  —  though  the  devil's  instrument  —  while 
Venice,  the  provider,  remained  under  interdict. 
We  here  come  into  contact  with  an  element  of 
singular  interest  in  the  relations  of  Venice  and  the 
East  —  her  attitude  towards  the  Papacy.  The 
independence  of  San  Marco  was  one  of  the  essen- 
tial articles  of  the  Venetian  creed.  In  spiritual 
matters  none  could  more  devoutly  bow  to  the 
Apostle  of  Christendom ;  but  the  spiritual  suprem- 
acy was  an  inland  sea  to  Venice:  it  must  be  stable, 
fixed,  defined  ;  it  must  not  flow  with  a  tide  upon 
the  temporal  shores  where  her  heart  and  treasure 
lay.  The  authority  of  San  Marco  was  a  political 
principle.  All  state  ceremonies  were  bound  up 
with  San  Marco ;  the  Ducal  Palace  itself  was 
subsidiary  to  the  Palace  of  St.  Mark.  How  should 
a  State  that  had  sheltered,  traditionally  at  least,  a 
Pope  "  stando  occulto  propter  timorem  "  that  had 
acted  as  mediator  between  Pope  and  Emperor  and 
seen  the  Emperor's  head  bowed  to  the  ground  on 
the  pavement  of  San  Marco  —  how  should  such  a 
State  be  subordinate  to  any  rule  but  its  own  com- 
plete self-consciousness  ?  Venice  always  followed 
the  eminently  practical  rule  of  allowing  much 
freedom  in  non-essentials  in  order  to  preserve 
more  closely  her  control  over  the  really  material 
issues.  The  attitude  always  maintained  by  her 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

with  regard  to  the  Inquisition  is  so  closely  parallel 
to  her  relations  with  the  East  and  the  pagans  of 
the  East,  constantly  deprecated  by  the  Pope,  that 
we  may  fitly  quote  here  Paolo  Sarpi's  admirable 
reply  to  the  papal  protests  against  conferring  the 
doctorate  in  Padua  on  Protestants ;  the  principle 
is  the  same,  though  limited  in  that  instance  to  a 
particular  and  seemingly  divergent  issue.  "  If  any- 
one openly  declared  his  intention  of  conferring  the 
doctorate  on  heretics,  or  admitted  anyone  to  it 
who  openly  and  with  scandal  professed  himself  to 
be  such,  it  might  be  said  that  he  had  failed  to 
persecute  heresy ;  but,  it  being  the  opinion  of  the 
most  Serene  Republic  that  heretics  and  those  who 
are  known  for  such  should  not  be  admitted  to  the 
doctorate,  and  it  being  our  duty  to  consider  Cath- 
olic anyone  who  does  not  profess  the  contrary,  no 
smallest  scandal  can  accrue  to  the  religion  even 
though  it  should  chance  that  one  not  known  for 
such  were  to  receive  the  doctorate.  The  doctorate 
in  philosophy  and  medicine  is  a  testimonial  that 
the  scholar  is  a  good  philosopher  and  physician 
and  that  he  may  be  admitted  to  the  practise  of  that 
art,  and  to  say  that  a  heretic  is  a  good  doctor  does 
not  prejudice  the  Catholic  faith;  certainly  it  would 
prejudice  it  if  anyone  were  to  say  that  such  a  man 
was  a  good  theologian."  This  was  the  position 
10  [  145  1 


VENICE 

of  Venice  with  regard  to  her  pagan  allies,  the 
meaning  of  her  superbly  fitted  lodges  for  Turk, 
infidel  and  heretic.  The  Saracen,  the  Turk  and 
the  Infidel  might  not  be  a  good  theologian,  but 
he  was  a  good  trader,  a  channel  for  the  glories 
with  which  Venice  loved  to  clothe  and  crown 
herself.  He  was  a  part  of  her  life  more  essentially 
and  more  irrevocably  than  the  prelates  of  holy 
Church ;  his  ban  would  have  been  more  terrible 
to  Venice  than  papal  thunders.  It  was  not  pri- 
marily as  hot  sons  of  the  Church,  consumed  with 
fire  for  the  shame  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  that  the 
Venetians  with  such  generous  provision  prepared 
their  ships  for  the  Crusade :  it  was  as  men  of 
business  with  no  small  strain  of  fire  in  their  blood 
and  a  high  sense  of  the  glorious  worth  and  destiny 
of  their  city. 

There  were  moments  of  inspiration  for  the 
Crusaders  amid  all  their  toils  and  internal  strife, 
and  not  least  was  the  first  view  of  Constantinople 
which  had  been  for  so  long  the  emporium  of 
Venice.  The  fleet  had  harboured  at  the  abbey  of 
St.  Etienne,  three  miles  from  Constantinople,  and 
Villeharduin  describes  the  wonder  and  enthusiasm 
of  those  who  saw  then  for  the  first  time  the  mar- 
vellous city  "  that  was  sovereign  over  all  others," 
with  its  rich  towers  and  palaces  and  churches  and 

[  146  ] 


THE   HORSES  OF  SAN   MARCO,   LOOKING  SOUTH. 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

high  encircling  walls.  "  And  you  must  know 
there  was  no  heart  there  so  daring  but  trembled." 
We  are  reminded  of  this  picture  of  Constantinople 
when  we  stand  face  to  face  with  Carpaccio's  city 
in  the  Combat  of  St.  George.  It  so  successfully 
combines  solidity  and  strength  with  the  airy  joy 
of  watch-towers  and  towers  of  pleasure,  that  at 
first  we  have  only  the  impression  of  fantastic  play 
of  architecture ;  but  by  degrees  we  come  to  feel 
the  seacoast  country  of  Carpaccio,  that  at  first 
seemed  so  wild  and  unmanned,  to  be  in  fact  brist- 
ling with  defence  and  preparation.  It  is  im- 
mensely strong  in  fortifications,  no  dream  or  fairy 
citadel.  It  is  begirt  with  towers  and  walls  along 
the  water ;  strongholds  lurk  among  the  loftiest 
crags ;  towers  of  defence  and  battlements  peer  over 
the  steep  hillside  ;  and,  if  we  look  closer,  we  see 
the  towers  are  thronged  with  men.  We  remember 
Villeharduin's  note,  "  There  were  so  many  men  on 
the  walls  and  on  the  towers  that  it  seemed  as 
if  they  were  made  of  nothing  but  people."  It  is 
a  sumptuous  city,  too,  that  we  see  in  glimpses 
through  the  gateway,  the  city  of  a  great  oriental 
potentate. 

We  cannot  follow  Villeharduin  through  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  siege  and  counter-siege.  He 
himself  confesses  in  the  relation  of  one  point  alone 


VENICE 

that  sixty  books  would  not  be  able  to  recount  all 
the  words  that  were  spoken,  and  the  counsels  that 
were   given  and  taken.     In  the  simple,  terse  and 
trenchant  style  that  Frenchmen,  and  especially  the 
Frenchmen  of  the  old  chronicles,  know  how  to 
wield  so  perfectly,  he  tells  us  of  the  Doge's  wise 
counsel  that  the  city  should  be  approached  by  way 
of  the    surrounding  islands    whence    they    might 
gather  stores ;  of  the  lords'  neglect  of  this  counsel, 
"just  as  if  no  one  of  them  had  ever  heard  of  it "  ; 
of  their  investment  of  the  palace  of  Alexius  in  the 
place  named  Chalcedony,  that  was  "  furnished  with 
all  the  delights  of  the  human  body  that  could  be 
imagined  befitting  the  dwelling  of  a  prince  "  ;  of 
the  capture  of  the  city  and  the  ravishing  of  its 
treasures  that  were  so  great  "  that  no  man  could 
come  to  an  end  of  counting  the  silver  and  the  gold 
and  plate  and  precious  stones  and  samite  and  silken 
cloth  and  dresses  vaire  and  grey,  and  ermines  and 
all  precious  things  that  were  ever  found  on  earth. 
And  Jofroi  de  Villeharduin,  the  Marshall  of  Cham- 
pagne, will  bear  good  witness  that  to  his  knowledge 
since  the  centuries  began  there  was  never  so  great 
gain  in  a  single  city."     The  division  of  the  booty 
necessarily  occasioned  heart-burning  and  revealed 
certain  vices  of  "  covetoise "    undreamed   before. 
And   as  time  went   on   and    still    the   passage    to 

[  150  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

Palestine  was  delayed  the  sanctuaries  of  the  Greek 
Church  were  treated  with  barbarous  irreverence 
and  despoiled  of  their  treasure  and  sacred  vessels. 
Then  with  the  retaking  of  Constantinople  from 
Marzuflo  there  followed  a  time  of  abandonment  of 
men  and  leaders  to  their  fiercest  passions  and  the 
almost  total  destruction  of  the  city.  Here  again 
Venice  stepped  in,  as  the  merchant  had  stepped  in 
to  rescue  treasure  from  the  pile  of  Savonarola,  to 
enrich  herself  from  the  ruins  of  Constantinople. 

The  taking  of  Constantinople  opened  another 
door  into  the  Eastern  garden  from  which  Venice 
had  already  begun  to  gather  so  rich  an  harvest. 
Picture  the  freights  that  Venetian  vessels  were 
bearing  home  in  these  years  of  crusade  and  con- 
quest, to  be  gathered  finally  into  the  garner  of  St. 
Mark's  !  It  is  strangely  thrilling  to  imagine  the 
first  welcome  of  the  four  bronze  horses,  travel- 
dimmed  no  doubt,  who  only  found  their  way  to 
their  present  station  on  the  forefront  of  St.  Mark's 
after  standing  many  times  in  peril  of  being  melted 
down  in  the  Arsenal  where  they  first  were  stored. 
But  at  last,  says  Sansovino,  their  beauty  was  recog- 
nised and  they  were  placed  on  the  church.  It  is 
only  by  degrees  that  we  come  to  accost  and  know 
the  exiles  one  by  one.  The  more  outstanding 
spoils,  the  Pala  d'Oro,  the  great  pillars  of  Acri, 


VENICE 

the  bronze  doors,  the  horses,  the  four  embracing 
kings,  these  are  among  the  first  letters  of  St.  Mark's 
oriental  alphabet ;  but  there  are  many  lesser  exiles 
which  have  found  a  shelter  in  the  port  of  Venice, 
which  as  we  wander  among  the  glorious  precincts 
of  San  Marco  impress  themselves  upon  us  one  by 
one ;  such  is  the  grave-browed,  noble  head  of 
porphyry  that  keeps  solitary  watch  towards  the 
waters  from  the  south  corner  of  the  outer  gallery 
of  San  Marco,  as  if  it  had  been  set  down  a  moment 
by  its  sculptor  and  forgotten  on  the  white,  marble 
balustrade.  The  whole  being  of  San  Marco  is 
bound  up  with  the  East,  and  it  is  another  token 
of  the  magic  of  Venice  that  she  has  been  able  to 
embrace  and  furnish  with  a  life-giving  soil  those 
plants  that  had  been  ruthlessly  uprooted  and  had 
made  so  long  and  perilous  a  journey.  The  official 
records,  that  tell  of  the  arrival  from  one  expedition 
and  another  of  Eastern  vestures  for  the  clothing  of 
San  Marco,  are  not  mere  inventories  to  us  who 
have  walked  upon  the  variegated  pavement  be- 
tween the  solemn  pillars  and  seen  the  sunlight 
illumine  one  by  one  the  marbles  of  the  walls, 
with  their  imbedded  sculpture  and  mosaic,  or  gild 
the  depths  of  the  storied  cupolas  and  the  luxuriant 
harmonies  of  colour  and  design  on  the  recesses  of 
the  windows.  They  are  significant,  these  records, 

[  152  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

like  the  entry  in  a  parish  register  of  the  birth  of 
some  one  whom  we  love ;  for  the  church  of  San 
Marco,  though  in  fact  a  museum  of  many  treasures, 
is  not  a  museum  of  foreign  treasures.  Her  spoils 
are  not  hung  up  in  her  as  aliens  like  the  spoils  that 
conquerors  bore  to  ancient  temples ;  they  found 
her  a  foster-mother  of  their  own  blood  and  kin. 
She  herself  is  sprung  from  a  plant  whose  first 
flowering  was  not  among  the  floating  marshes  of 
the  lagoon. 

Turn,  on  a  sunny  day,  from  the  Molo  towards 
San  Marco,  passing  below  the  portico  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  adjoining  the  Piazzetta.  Framed 
by  the  pointed  arch  at  the  end  is  a  portion  of  the 
wall  which  once  formed  the  west  tower  of  the 
Ducal  Palace.  This  delicate  harmony  of  coloured 
marbles  and  sculptured  stone  seems  a  rare  and 
beautiful  creation,  not  of  stone  but  of  something 
more  plastic,  more  mobile,  so  responsive  is  it  to 
the  light,  so  luminous,  so  full  of  feeling.  As  we 
draw  nearer  and  it  becomes  more  clearly  defined, 
we  see  great  slabs  of  marble  sawn  and  spread  open 
like  the  pages  of  a  book,  corresponding  in  pattern 
as  the  veining  of  a  leaf.  They  are  linked  by 
marble  rope-work,  and  between  them  are  inserted 
smaller  slabs  of  delicately  sculptured  stone  and  a 
wonderful  coil  of  mosaic.  It  is  a  veritable  patch- 


VENICE 

work  wall,  but  no  less  beautiful  in  its  effect  of 
harmony  than  in  its  details  —  the  four  porphyry 
figures  of  embracing  kings  its  corner-stone.  This 
wall  is  truly  a  key  to  the  fabric  of  the  church 
itself ;  it  is  like  a  window  into  St.  Mark's,  that 
treasury  of  Eastern  spoil ;  the  East  is  in  every  vein, 
in  every  heart-beat  of  it.  The  spoil  of  the  temples 
of  ancient  gods  furnished  forth  the  Church  of  San 
Marco  as  it  furnished  the  saint  himself.  In  this 
one  angle  we  have  cipollino  and  porphyry,  serpen- 
tine and  verd-antico,  marmo  greco  and  eastern 
mosaic,  pillars  of  granite  profound  and  glittering, 
breccia  africana  and  paonazetto.  The  weight  of 
centuries  is  upon  it  all ;  ages  of  lives  have  gone 
to  its  making,  and  it  came  to  Venice  only  when 
generations  had  passed  over  its  head.  For  the 
human  race  it  has  never  been  but  old  ;  the  mind 
loses  itself  in  speculation  on  that  stupendous  past 
that  lies  between  us  and  the  time  when  stone  was 
not.  And  yet  how  strangely  through  that  long, 
enchanted  silence,  when  the  centuries  were  endow- 
ing it  with  an  immensity  of  strength  and  hardness 
and  endurance  for  which  we  have  no  word  of 
parallel  but  in  its  own  nature,  it  has  kept  the 
similitude  and  mobility  of  life,  at  once  withholding 
and  revealing  the  riches  of  its  beauty.  How  can 
we  wonder  that  da  Contarini,  the  strange  and  learned 

[  i54  J 


Ky  permission  oftht  Hon.  John  Collier. 

THE  HORSES  OF  SAN   MARCO,   LOOKING  NORTH. 


CRUSADE    AND    PILGRIMAGE 

dreamer  of  the  Cinquecento,  burst  out  into  a  rap- 
ture of  mystic  joy  in  the  presence  of  San  Marco, 
"  that  golden  church,  built  by  the  eternal  gods,  of 
our  protector,  Messer  San  Marco  "  ?  He  celebrates 
the  pinnacles  and  shining  columns,  the  throng 
of  glittering  figures  that  burn  like  golden  spirits 
in  the  sunlight,  the  sculptured  marbles  polished 
with  soft  Ethiopian  sand.  "  It  might  be  said  that 
it  has  been  gathered  together  from  all  parts  of  the 
world."  He  then  proceeds  to  seek  among  the 
marbles  of  San  Marco  those  mysterious  correspon- 
dences which  the  wonder  of  men  has  always  felt 
to  exist  between  human  nature  and  the  nature  of 
the  stone  ;  he  loses  himself  in  contemplation  of  one 
after  another  of  the  precious  marbles  that  in  wide 
surface  or  minute  mosaic  form  the  priceless  gar- 
ment of  St.  Mark's  temple :  diaspro,  which  must 
be  seen  in  broad  extent  to  realise  its  strange 
radiance,  like  flocks  of  cloudlets  fleeting  before 
the  wind  in  the  full  illumination  of  the  setting 
sun,  dazzling  our  eyes  with  light;  or  that  other 
adamantine  marble  of  Africa,  the  breccia  adriana 
di  Tegoli,  a  harmony  of  greens  before  which  ser- 
pentine and  verd-antico  must  bow  ;  or  the  most 
precious  porpora  of  deep  and  glowing  red ;  or  that 
queen  of  all  the  stones,  imperial  in  its  beauty,  a 
magnetic  stone  indeed,  drawing  the  spirit  into  its 

[  1571 


VENICE 

luminous  depths,  weaving  round  it  an  enchanted 
web  of  secrecy,  of  divine  inter-relations,  till  the 
human  soul  seems  to  commune  with  the  very  soul 
of  colour — diaspro  sanguinoso.  What  would  not 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  have  read  in  those  eloquent 
and  secret  pages  where  wave  follows  wave  of 
colour,  deep  ocean  green,  pure  carmine,  translucent 
amethyst.  Diaspro  sanguinoso  !  in  the  setting  of 
a  ring,  in  the  mosaic  of  a  pavement,  it  is  seen  a 
dense  green  stone  spotted  with  crimson  —  blood- 
stone. It  is  as  if  you  saw  the  human  eye  in  one 
of  those  weird,  symbolic  paintings  of  old  time,  iso- 
lated in  its  socket  without  the  illumination  of  the 
human  countenance  about  it.  This  sanguinary  jas- 
per is  too  subtle,  too  delicate,  too  mystical  to  be- 
long to  that  titanic  family  of  the  stones  of  Africa. 
The  dreaming  soil  of  Egypt  might  have  given  it 
birth ;  it  might  own  kinship  with  the  myth  of 
Aurora's  kiss;  but  to  us  it  seems  fraught  with  the 
magic  of  a  more  distant  East. 

There  have  been  many  vindicators  of  the  free- 
dom of  Venice ;  many  assertors  that,  though  in 
appearance  subject  some  time  to  Byzantium,  she 
has  always  been  politically  independent.  To  us 
it  seems  a  matter  of  lesser  moment ;  but  whether, 
in  fact  or  in  form,  Venice  were  or  were  not  ever 
politically  dependent  on  Byzantium,  the  fact  of 

[  158  ] 


CRUSADE   AND    PILGRIMAGE 

her  artistic  dependence  is  one  which  she  cannot 
deny  without  perjuring  herself  before  a  thousand 
witnesses.  Document  after  document  more  dur- 
able than  parchment  —  though  many  have  already 
perished  and  many  perish  daily  —  attests  the  debt 
of  Venice  to  the  East.  Till  she  perish  altogether 
at  the  hands  of  a  relentless,  unregarding  tyrant  — 
a  bastard  child  of  Time  misnamed  Progress  —  she 
must  continue  to  bear  witness  to  her  debt.  So 
long  as  she  breathes,  each  breath  confesses  it  and 
the  East  will  lay  her  tribute  on  the  tomb  of  Venice 
dead  —  lamenting  as  for  one  of  her  own  children. 


[  159] 


Chapter 

TWO   VENETIAN  STATUES 

IN  two  of  the  public  squares  of  Venice  the  stat- 
ues, in  bronze,  of  two  of  her  heroes  are  set  up, 
the  one  of  a  man  of  war,  the  other  of  a  come- 
dian :  in  the  Campo  di  SS.  Giovanni  e  Paolo  the 
statue  of  Bartolomeo  Colleoni,  in  the  Campo  di 
San  Bartolomeo  that  of  Carlo  Goldoni.  The  first 
is  a  warrior  on  horseback  in  full  armour,  uplifted 
high  above  the  square,  disdaining  the  companion- 
ship of  the  puny  mortals  who  saunter  without  a 
purpose  to  and  fro  under  his  feet.  Horse  and  rider 
stand  self-sufficient  and  alone ;  one  spirit  breathes 
in  both  :  in  the  contour  of  the  stern  face  of  the 
warrior,  with  its  massive  chin  and  proudly  disdain- 
ful lip,  in  his  throat  with  the  muscles  standing  out 
like  ropes  upon  it,  and  in  the  sweep  of  his  capa- 
cious brow,  under  which  the  keenly  penetrating 
eyes  hold  their  object  in  a  grip  of  iron  ;  and,  for 
the  horse,  in  every  line  of  his  superbly  curving 
neck,  in  the  acute  serenity  of  his  down-looking 
eye,  and  in  each  curling  lock  of  his  mane  that  seem 

[  160  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

as  if  moved  together  by  one  controlling  impulse. 
How  clear  the  outline  of  his  skull,  everywhere  vis- 
ible beneath  its  fine  covering  of  flesh  and  muscle  ! 
and  his  body,  like  the  body  of  his  master,  how  per- 
fectly responsive  an  instrument  it  is !  There  is 
nothing  here  of  that  wild  disorder  of  the  beast  un- 
tamed, which  is  mistaken  sometimes  for  strength. 
The  hand  of  Colleoni  is  light  upon  the  bridle,  the 
horse  glories  in  a  subjection  that  is  itself  a  tri- 
umph :  he  and  his  master  are  one.  Do  but  com- 
pare this  for  a  moment  with  the  prodigious  mass, 
the  plunging  man  and  beast,  that  overlook  the 
Riva  degli  Schiavoni  —  Victor  Emanuel  on  horse- 
back. It  is  not  altogether  an  arbitrary  contrast ; 
the  two  great  monuments  seem  to  represent  Venice 
before  the  fall  and  Venice  after.  What  unity  of 
purpose,  what  hope  of  conquest  is  there  in  those 
monstrous  figures  on  the  Riva  ?  Beneath  this 
redundancy  of  flesh  and  armour  how  shall  they 
prevail  against  the  world  ?  They  are  not  only  dif- 
ferent in  degree,  they  are  of  a  different  species  from 
Verocchio's  horse  and  rider.  The  spirit  of  the  first 
Renaissance  is  in  every  line  of  his  great  statue  — 
its  strength,  agility  and  decorative  skill.  How 
studied  is  the  symmetry,  the  static  perfection  of 
the  whole !  how  strongly  and  yet  how  delicately 
he  emphasises  the  rectangular  framework  of  the 

»  [  161  ] 


VENICE 

design  !  The  rod  of  Colleoni,  the  trappings  of  his 
horse,  the  tail  and  legs  and  body-line  —  each  is 
made  contributive,  while  the  backward  poise  of  the 
rider  balances  the  forward  motion  of  the  horse, 
and  all  is  thus  drawn  into  the  scheme.  It  is  all 
willed,  but  with  that  spontaneity  of  will  which  men 
call  inspiration. 

This  statue,  which  so  marvellously  sums  up  in 
sculpture  the  central  aim  of  Venice  as  a  state  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  offers  an  instructive  contrast 
to  that  in  the  Campo  di  San  Bartolomeo,  where 
the  comedian  Goldoni,  though  raised  above  the 
level  of  the  square,  still  seems  a  companionable 
part  of  the  life  that  passes  around  him,  moving  in 
its  midst  as  he  moved  amid  the  life  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  in  Venice,  meditating  upon  it, 
observing,  loving  it,  faithfully  and  fearlessly  re- 
cording it.  Marked  by  a  realistic  fidelity  and  in- 
sight worthy  of  a  greater  age,  Dal  Zotto's  statue 
of  Goldoni  is  in  its  own  way  itself  a  masterpiece 
and  one  of  the  noblest  works  of  modern  art  in 
Venice,  full  of  sympathy  and  understanding  and 
admirable  in  execution.  The  sculptor  might 
seem  to  have  lived  as  an  intimate  with  Goldoni, 
and  the  realism  of  his  treatment  suits  the  subject 
singularly  well.  The  comedian  is  not  aloft  upon 
a  pedestal,  remote  from  men,  in  glorious  aloofness ; 

[  162  ] 


TWO   VENETIAN    STATUES 

he  is  raised  but  slightly  above  our  heads,  not  much 
observed  of  the  crowd,  but  observing  all.  Briskly 
he  steps  along,  in  buckled  shoes,  frilled  shirt  and 
neckerchief,  his  coat  flying  open,  and  a  book  or 
manuscript  bulging  from  the  pocket  of  it,  his 
waistcoat  slackly  buttoned,  his  cocked  hat  tipped 
jauntily  upon  his  forehead  over  his  powdered 
periwig.  As  he  goes  he  crushes  his  gloves  with 
one  hand  at  his  back  and  with  the  other  marks 
progress  with  his  cane.  It  is  a  strong,  taut  little 
figure,  tending  to  roundness,  with  a  world  of  sug- 
gestiveness  in  every  motion,  an  admirable  min- 
gling of  thought  and  humour  in  the  face  that 
laughs  down  on  this  strange,  grotesque,  conven- 
tional, lovable  Venice.  What  a  strange  contrast 
is  this,  of  the  slippered  sage  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  who  houses  the  swallows  in  the  loose 
folds  of  his  slouch  hat,  and  the  armed  hero  of  the 
fifteenth,  whose  every  muscle  is  alert,  responsive 
to  the  stern  controlling  will !  Goldoni  is  a  sage 
upon  a  different  platform,  meditating  upon  a  dif- 
ferent world.  His  Venice  is  the  Venice  of 
Longhi ;  she  has  become  pedestrian ;  she  has  be- 
come a  theme  for  comedy.  Comedy  might  have 
found  plentiful  food,  no  doubt,  in  the  Venice  that 
employed  Colleoni,  the  Venice  of  the  first  great 
painters.  There  is  a  fund  of  humour  and  whim- 

[  163  ] 


VENICE 

sicality  in  the  strangely  fascinating  faces  of  Car- 
paccio's  citizens.  Yet  try  to  picture  them  held 
up  to  ridicule  by  one  of  themselves  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  imagination  faints ;  the  thing  is  in- 
conceivable. In  Goldoni's  age  the  interest  of  life 
was  shifted  to  another  field,  and  he  stands  as  the 
central  figure,  the  leader  in  a  new  campaign,  rep- 
resentative not  of  its  vices  or  its  vanities  or  its 
follies,  but  of  the  solid  virtues  of  which  these  are 
the  shady  side.  He  is  one  of  those  happy  spirits 
which  the  reactionary  age  of  small  things  pro- 
duced, not  only  in  Italy  but  everywhere  in  the 
eighteenth  century  ;  a  spirit  of  clear,  calm  insight 
and  capable  judgment,  neither  enamoured  of  the 
life  of  his  small  circle  nor  embittered  against  it, 
content  to  live  in  the  midst  of  it  in  serenity  and 
truth. 

Goldoni,  Colleoni,  each  is  representative  of  a 
period  in  the  history  of  the  Republic,  periods 
widely  separated  in  temper  and  in  time,  and  yet 
related  intimately ;  so  intimately  indeed  that  the 
period  of  which  Goldoni  is  the  master-spirit  is 
actually  foreshadowed  in  the  very  presence  of  the 
superb  warrior  of  the  other  public  square.  To 
study  the  process  of  the  growth  and  the  decadence 
of  the  Republic  is  to  find  that  there  is  no  conven- 
ient preconceived  theory  with  which  it  will  fit  in ; 

[  164  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN   STATUES 

it  rebels  against  such  manipulation,  as  everything 
individual  rebels  against  the  ready-made.  We 
need  rather  to  look  upon  Venice  as  upon  a  plant 
that  springs  and  comes  to  its  perfection  and  fades 
slowly  away,  changing  and  developing  in  inde- 
finable gradations,  showing  at  every  stage  some 
surprising  revival  from  the  past,  some  strange  antic- 
ipation of  the  future.  In  the  fifteenth  century 
itself,  while  the  earliest  artists  were  at  wprk  for 
Venice  at  Murano,  and  Carpaccio  was  as  yet  unborn, 
Venice  already  bore  about  with  her  the  seeds  of 
her  decay.  In  fact,  the  growth  of  her  art  coin- 
cides with  the  slow  relaxation  of  her  hold  upon 
the  bulwarks  of  her  policy  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  The  election  of  Foscari  as  Doge  in  1423 
marks  a  moment  of  change  in  Venetian  life  and 
government,  indicated  by  the  substitution  of  the 
title  Signoria  for  that  of  Commune  Venetiarum, 
and  by  the  abolition  of  the  arengo  —  yet  Carpaccio 
has  still  his  grave  citizens  to  portray,  and  Ursula 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  infancy.  Among  the  exhor- 
tations which  tradition  has  handed  down  to  us  as 
addressed  from  time  to  time  to  the  Venetians  by 
Doge  or  by  ambassador  is  that  supposed  to  have 
been  spoken  on  his  death-bed  by  Foscari's  precur- 
sor, the  Doge  Tommaso  Mocenigo.  It  might 
have  been  spoken  for  our  instruction,  instead  of 

[  165  ] 


VENICE 

as  a  reminder  to  his  own  subjects  of  what  they 
knew  so  well,  so  vivid  an  impression  is  to  be  de- 
rived from  it  of  the  inner  life  of  Venice  during 
the  first  thirty  years  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
Whether  legendary  or  not,  these  exhortations 
have  something  significant  and  individual  about 
them  which  really  illuminates ;  it  is  as  if  a  light 
were  suddenly  flashed  into  a  vast  room,  pressing 
our  vision  upon  one  point,  providing  a  nucleus 
of  knowledge  about  which  scattered  ideas  and 
impressions  may  group  themselves  intelligibly. 
Whatever  they  are,  they  are  not  the  fabrication 
of  a  later  time  which  has  lost  understanding  of  the 
spirit  that  animated  the  past.  If  the  portrait  they 
give  is  imaginary,  they  have  seized  upon  the 
salient  features  and  endowed  them  with  a  vitality 
which  the  photograph,  however  literal,  too  often 
lacks.  Mocenigo's  farewell  address  is  an  impres- 
sive portico  opening  upon  a  new  period  in  the 
career  of  Venice,  a  strange  trumpet-note  of  ill 
omen  on  the  threshold  of  her  greatest  glory. 
Behold,  he  says,  the  fulness  of  the  life  you  have 
achieved,  of  the  riches  you  have  stored ;  turn 
now  and  preserve  it ;  there  is  peril  in  the  path 
beyond ;  there  is  twilight  and  decay  and  death. 
Your  eyes,  full  of  the  light,  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  shadow ;  but  mine,  dim  now  with 

[  166] 


TWO    VENETIAN   STATUES 

age,  have  known  it,  and  its  grip  is  upon  my 
limbs.  Venice  heard  but  might  not  heed  his 
warnings.  The  sun  himself  must  rise  and  fulfil 
his  day  and  set.  Decay  is  in  each  breath  that  the 
plant  draws  in ;  it  cannot  crystallise  the  moment ; 
inexorably  it  is  drawn  onwards  to  maturity  and 
death.  It  was  inevitable  for  Venice  that  as  her 
strength  increased  her  responsibilities  should  in- 
crease with  it ;  perforce  she  must  turn  her  face  to 
land  as  well  as  sea.  She  could  not  remain  alone, 
intent  only  on  nourishing  and  developing  her  in- 
dividual life.  In  proportion  to  her  greatness  she 
must  attract  others  to  her,  and  the  circle  of  her 
influence  must  widen  till  it  passed  beyond  her 
own  control.  The  dying  words  of  Mocenigo 
came  too  late.  A  temporary  delay  there  might 
have  been ;  there  was  no  turning  back.  Venice 
had  been  drawn  already  into  the  vortex  of  Euro- 
pean mainland  politics,  and  she  could  not  stand 
aside.  In  our  own  colonial  policy  we  are  con- 
tinually confronted  with  the  problem  of  aggression 
and  defence.  In  reality  there  is  no  boundary  be- 
tween the  two,  or  the  boundary,  if  it  exists,  is  so 
fine  that  the  events  of  a  moment  may  obliterate 
it.  St.  Theodore  carries  his  shield  in  his  right 
hand  and  his  spear  in  the  left ;  and  an  old  chroni- 
cler of  Venetian  glory  interprets  the  action  as 

[  167  ] 


VENICE 

symbolising  the  predominance  of  defence  in  his 
warrior's  ideal.  Doge  Tommaso  Mocenigo  would 
have  approved  the  interpretation.  But  spear  and 
shield  cannot  exchange  their  functions.  Until  the 
spear  is  laid  aside,  it  will  insist  on  leading ;  and 
Venice  had  not  laid  aside  the  soear,  she  had  fur- 
nished herself  anew. 

"  In  my  time,"  says  Mocenigo,  after  a  pathetic 
preliminary  avowal  of  his  obligations  to  Venice 
and  of  the  humble  efforts  he  had  made  to  dis- 
charge them,  "  in  my  time,  our  loan  has  been  re- 
duced by  four  millions  of  ducats,  but  six  millions 
still  are  lacking  for  the  debt  incurred  in  the  war 
with  Padua,  Vicenza,  Verona.  .  .  .  This  city  of 
ours  sends  out  at  present  ten  million  ducats  every 
year  for  its  trade  in  different  parts  of  the  world, 
with  ships  and  galleys  and  the  necessary  appoint- 
ments to  the  value  of  not  less  than  two  million 
ducats.  In  this  city  are  three  thousand  vessels  of 
from  one  to  two  hundred  anforas  burden,  carrying 
sixteen  thousand  mariners  :  there  are  three  hun- 
dred vessels  which  alone  carry  eight  thousand 
mariners  more.  Every  year  sail  forty-five  galleys, 
counting  small  and  great  craft,  and  these  take 
eleven  thousand  mariners,  three  thousand  captains 
and  three  thousand  calkers.  There  are  three 
thousand  weavers  of  silk  garments  and  sixteen 

[  168  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

thousand  of  fustian.  .  .  .  There  are  one  thousand 
gentlemen  with  incomes  ranging  from  seven  hun- 
dred to  four  thousand  ducats.  If  you  go  on  in 
this  way,  you  will  increase  from  good  to  better, 
you  will  be  lords  of  riches  and  of  Christendom. 
But  beware,  as  of  fire,  of  taking  what  belongs  to 
others  and  making  unjust  war,  for  these  are  errors 
that  God  cannot  tolerate  in  princes.  It  is  known 
to  all  that  the  war  with  the  Turk  has  made  you 
brave  and  valorous  by  sea,  .  .  .  and  in  these  years 
you  have  so  acted  that  the  world  has  judged  you 
the  leaders  of  Christendom.  You  have  many  men 
experienced  in  embassies  and  government,  men 
who  are  perfect  orators.  You  have  many  doctors 
in  diverse  sciences,  lawyers  above  all,  and  for  this 
reason  many  foreigners  come  to  you  for  judgement 
in  their  differences  and  abide  by  your  decisions. 
Take  heed,  therefore,  how  you  govern  such  a  state 
as  this,  and  be  careful  to  give  it  your  counsel  and 
your  warning,  lest  ever  by  negligence  it  suffer  loss 
of  power.  And  it  behoves  you  earnestly  to  ad- 
vise whoever  succeeds  me  in  this  place,  because 
through  him  the  Republic  may  receive  much  good 
and  much  harm.  Many  of  you  incline  to  Messer 
Marino  Caravello ;  he  is  a  worthy  man  and  for  his 
worthy  qualities  deserves  that  rank.  Messer  Fran- 
cesco Bembo  is  an  honest  man,  and  so  is  Messer 

[  169  ] 


VENICE 

Giacomo  Trevisan.  Messer  Antonio  Contarini, 
Messer  Faustin  Michiel,  Messer  Alban  Badoer,  all 
these  are  wise  and  merit  it.  Many  incline  to 
Messer  Francesco  Foscari,  not  knowing  that  he  is 
an  ambitious  man  and  a  liar,  without  a  basis  to 
his  actions.  His  intellect  is  flighty ;  he  embraces 
much  and  holds  little.  If  he  is  Doge,  you  will 
always  be  at  war.  The  possessor  of  ten  thousand 
ducats  will  be  master  but  of  one.  You  will  spend 
gold  and  silver.  You  will  be  robbed  of  your  rep- 
utation and  your  honour.  You  will  be  vassals  of 
infantry  and  captains  and  men-at-arms.  I  could 
not  restrain  myself  from  giving  you  my  opinion. 
God  help  you  to  choose  the  best,  and  rule  and 
keep  you  in  peace." 

Mocenigo's  warning  was  disregarded.  But  al- 
though Foscari  was  made  Doge,  Venice  did  not 
rush  into  war.  In  spite  of  repeated  efforts  on  the 
part  of  the  Florentines  to  secure  an  alliance,  the 
traditions  of  the  old  peace  policy  were  tenaciously 
adhered  to  during  the  first  years  of  the  new  reign. 
It  was  the  temptation  to  secure  Carmagnola  as 
leader  of  her  forces  which  finally  overcame  her 
scruples.  Foscari's  discourse  on  this  occasion,  as 
reported  by  Romanin,  is  a  curiously  specious  min- 
gling of  philanthropy  and  self-interest.  Reading 
between  the  lines,  we  understand  from  it  some- 

[  170  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN   STATUES 

thing  of  Mocenigo's  fears  at  the  prospect  of  his 
election.  The  passion  of  empire  is  in  his  heart. 
Venice,  whom  eulogists  loved  to  represent  as  the 
bulwark  of  Europe  against  the  infidel,  is  now  to 
be  the  champion  of  down-trodden  Florence.  It 
is  the  sword  of  justice  that  she  is  to  wield.  We 
are  reminded  of  Veronese's  allegory  —  Venice 
seated  upon  the  world,  robed  in  ermine  and  scar- 
let, her  silver  and  her  gold  about  her,  her  breast 
clasped  with  a  jewelled  buckler,  round  her  neck 
the  rich  pearls  of  her  own  island  fabric,  on  her 
head  the  royal  crown.  Her  face  is  in  the  shadow 
of  her  gilded  throne  and  of  the  folds  of  the  stiff 
rose  satin  curtain,  as  she  looks  out  over  the  world, 
over  the  universe,  from  her  lofty  seat  on  the  dark 
azure  globe.  The  lion,  the  sword  and  the  olive 
branch  are  at  her  feet.  What  is  she  dreaming  of, 
this  Venice  of  the  soft,  round,  shadowed  face  ?  Is 
it  of  peace,  or  of  new  empire  ?  Is  it  to  the  olive 
bough  or  to  the  sword  of  justice  that  she  inclines? 
In  a  neighbouring  fresco,  Neptune,  brooding  in 
profound  abstraction  beside  his  trident,  deputes  to 
the  lion  his  watch  ;  but  Mars  of  the  mainland  is 
alert,  on  foot,  and  his  charger's  head  from  above 
him  breathes  fire  upon  his  brow. 

"  You  will  be  the  vassals  of  captains  and  men-at- 
arms."     There  was  a  note  of  prophecy  in  Mocen- 


VENICE 

igo's  closing  words,  and  it  is  indeed  a  question,  in 
face  of  Verocchio's  superb  warrior  —  who  was  the 
prince  and  who  the  vassal,  who  the  servant  and 
who  the  master.  Colleoni's  triumph  at  his  grand 
reception  in  Venice  can  scarcely  have  been  the 
triumph  of  a  mere  man-at-arms.  Studying  the 
magnificent  reserve  of  strength  in  his  grandly 
moulded  face  and  neck,  we  feel  Venice  must  rather 
have  acknowledged  that  an  Emperor  had  descended 
in  her  midst.  Little  wonder  that  such  a  man 
dared  ask  a  place  on  the  Piazza  of  St.  Mark  itself! 
The  period  of  his  command  embraced  some  of  the 
most  brilliant  successes  of  the  Venetian  arms  on 
land.  Difficulties  and  perils  that  seemed  insur- 
mountable were  yet  surmounted  by  a  mind 
possessed  of  supreme  qualities  of  judgment,  dar- 
ing and  nobility.  Singularly  akin,  indeed,  to 
Venice  herself  was  this  man  who  had  a  key  to 
the  minds  of  his  antagonists,  who  read  their 
secrets  and  forestalled  their  actions :  it  is  not 
strange  that  he  was  dear  to  her.  Though 
a  professional  soldier  and  no  Venetian  born,  he 
could  act  as  a  worthy  representative  of  Venice,  and 
there  might  seem  small  fear  of  ruin  for  a  Republic 
that  could  so  choose  her  servants.  But  Colleoni 
had  fought  against  the  Lion  and  set  his  foot  upon 
its  neck,  and  the  Lion  had  been  constrained  to 

[  172  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

turn  and  ask  his  service  of  him,  the  highest  tribute 
it  could  offer,  the  completest  confession  of  its 
defeat.  And  Colleoni  could  respect  and  be  faith- 
ful to  such  a  paymaster :  for  twenty  years  he  led 
the  Republic  on  land,  and  was  never  called  to 
render  an  account  before  her  judgment-seat. 
Magnanimously  at  his  death  he  absolves  her  of  all 
her  debts  to  him,  makes  her  two  grand  donations, 
then,  by  his  own  wish,  towers  over  Venice,  a  paid 
alien,  her  virtual  master,  yet  such  a  master  as  she 
was  proud  to  serve.  We  wonder  if  this  thought 
came  ever  to  the  mind  of  Verocchio,  the  Floren- 
tine, as  he  moulded  the  great  figure  of  the  hero : 
did  the  imagination  please  him  of  Venice  the 
vassal,  Venice  subjected  beneath  the  horse  and  his 
rider  ? 

There  was  a  fete  given  in  honour  of  Colleoni 
at  Venice  in  1455,  on  the  occasion  of  the  bestow- 
ing on  him  the  staff  of  supreme  command.  To 
Spino,  Colleoni's  enthusiastic  biographer  and  fellow 
citizen,  the  episode  was  portentous,  as  to  one 
unfamiliar  with  Venetian  traditions  in  this  respect. 
It  had,  indeed,  a  significance  he  did  not  dream  of; 
it  was  the  reception  not  of  a  victorious  fleet,  not 
of  an  admiring  monarch  or  fugitive  pope,  but  of 
an  army  of  mercenaries  and  their  leader.  Spino 
tells  how  Colleoni  was  accompanied  by  an  escort 

[  173  1 


VENICE 

of  the  chief  citizens  of  Bergamo,  Brescia  and  other 
cities  of  the  kingdom  that  had  been  committed  to 
his  charge ;  how  barges  over  a  thousand  were  sent 
from  Venice  to  fetch  him  and  his  party  from 
Marghera  ;  how  the  Venetians  came  out  in  flocks 
to  meet  him  in  gondolas  and  sandolos  to  the  sound 
of  trumpets  and  other  instruments  of  music,  pre- 
ceded by  three  ships  called  bucintori,  "  of  marvellous 
workmanship  and  grandeur/'  in  which  were  the 
Doge  and  Signoria,  the  senate  and  other  magis- 
trates ;  and  how  ambassadors  of  kings  and  princes 
and  subject  states  came  to  do  homage  to  the  new 
Serenissimo  Pasqual  Malipiero.  He  tells,  as  all 
the  chroniclers  of  festivals  at  Venice  tell,  of  the 
throngs,  not  only  on  windows  and  upon  the  fonda- 
mentas,  but  upon  the  house  roofs  along  the  Grand 
Canal;  of  Colleoni's  reception  at  San  Marco  and 
the  display  of  the  sacred  treasures  at  the  high  altar ; 
and  how,  as  he  knelt  before  the  Doge,  the  staff 
of  his  office  was  bestowed  upon  him  with  these 
words,  "  By  the  authority  and  decree  of  the  most 
excellent  city  of  Venice,  of  us  the  Doge  and  of  the 
Senate,  ruler  and  captain-general  of  all  our  men 
and  arms  on  land  shalt  thou  be.  Take  from  our 
hands  this  military  staff,  with  good  presage  and 
fortune,  as  emblem  of  thy  power,  to  maintain  and 
defend  the  majesty,  the  faith  and  the  judgments 


IN    THE    PIAZZA. 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

of  this  State  with  dignity  and  with  decorum  by 
thy  care  and  charge."  For  ten  days  the  festivals 
continued  with  jousts  and  tournaments  and  feats 
of  arms.  But  all  was  not  feting  and  merriment. 
Colleoni  held  grave  discourses  also  with  the  Padri, 
and  "  their  spirits  were  confirmed  by  him,"  says 
Spino,  "  in  safety  and  great  confidence." 

The  Venice  who  could  thus  do  honour  to  Col- 
leoni her  general  was  a  superb  Venice,  superb  as 
Colleoni  himself  who  in  his  castle  of  Malpaga 
received  not  only  embassies  from  kings  but  kings 
themselves ;  who,  at  the  visit  of  Cristierino,  King 
of  Dacia,  came  out  to  meet  him  "  on  a  great 
courser,  caparisoned  and  equipped  for  war,  and  he, 
all  but  his  head,  imperially  clad  in  complete 
armour,  attended  only  by  two  standard-bearers  car- 
rying his  helm  and  lance,  while  a  little  further 
behind  followed  his  whole  company  of  six  hun- 
dred horse  in  battle  array,  with  his  condottieri  and 
his  squadrons,  all  gloriously  and  most  nobly  armed 
and  mounted,  with  flags  flying  and  the  sound  of 
trumpets  ";  who,  besides  making  rich  provision 
for  all  his  children,  built  churches,  endowed  mon- 
asteries and  left  to  the  Venetians,  after  cancelling 
all  their  debts  to  him,  one  hundred  thousand 
ducats  of  gold.  The  Venice  that  employed  Col- 
leoni was  superb  —  we  have  a  record  of  her  living 


VENICE 

features  in  Gentile  Bellini's  marvellous  present- 
ment of  the  procession  in  St.  Mark's  square  —  the 
brain  as  flexible,  the  jaws  as  rigid  as  those  of  the 
mighty  warrior  Verocchio  conceived.  Yet  Spine's 
comment  on  the  last  tribute  paid  by  the  Venetians 
to  their  general  gives  us  pause  —  "  confessing  to 
have  lost  the  defender  of  their  liberty."  It  was  a 
confession  which  could  still  clothe  itself  trium- 
phantly in  the  great  bronze  statue,  but  there  is  an 
omen  in  the  words.  In  this  confession  of  1496  is 
foreshadowed  the  fall  of  1796. 

Much  has  been  written  of  the  social  life  of  this 
Venice  of  the  Fall ;  there  are  countless  sources  for 
its  history  in  the  letters,  diaries  and  memoirs  of  its 
citizens  and  of  its  visitors,  reputable  and  disrepu- 
table ;  richest  sources  of  all,  there  are  the  pictures 
of  Longhi,  the  comedies  of  Goldoni.  But  of  the 
Venice  that  lay  behind  this  small  round  of  conven- 
tions and  refinements,  laxity  and  tyranny,  perhaps 
less  has  been  said.  Of  many  avenues  by  which  it 
might  be  approached  we  shall  choose  one,  and 
since  the  praise  of  Colleoni  has  drawn  our  atten- 
tion to  the  foundations  of  Venetian  power  on  land, 
nothing  will  better  serve  our  purpose  than  the 
foundation  of  her  power  by  sea,  that  Arsenal 
which  Sansovino  described  as  "  the  basis  and 
groundwork  of  the  greatness  of  this  Republic,  as 

[  178  1 


TWO    VENETIAN   STATUES 

well  as  the  honour  of  all  Italy."  The  Arsenal 
was,  next  to  San  Marco,  perhaps  the  sanctuary  of 
Venetian  faith.  It  was  far  more  than  a  mere  man- 
ufactory of  arms  and  battleships.  In  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  Sensa  its  workmen  held  the  post  of 
honour,  the  rowing  of  the  Bucintoro.  Its  officers 
were  among  the  most  reputed  in  the  State.  The 
Council  of  Ten  had  a  room  within  its  precincts. 
It  was  entered  by  a  superb  triumphal  arch,  a  sight 
which  none  who  visited  Venice  must  miss.  The 
condition  of  the  Arsenal  may  well  be  taken  as  an 
index  to  the  condition  of  Venice  herself. 

We  may  set  side  by  side  two  pictures  of  the 
Arsenal,  one  drawn  from  a  curious  little  work  of 
early  seventeenth  century,  a  time  at  which,  though 
Venice  was  moving  down  the  path  of  her  decay, 
the  glorious  traditions  of  the  past  still  found  re- 
newal in  her  present  life,  and  the  Venetian  fleet 
was  still  a  triumphant  symbol  of  Venetian  great- 
ness ;  the  other  from  the  reports  of  her  officials  in 
the  last  years  before  her  death.  Luca  Assarino 
was  one  of  many  guests  who  had  to  say  to  Venice, 
or  to  the  Doge  her  representative,  "  My  intellect 
staggers  under  the  weight  of  a  memory  laden  with 
surpassing  favours.  You  received  me  into  your 
house,  did  me  honour,  assisted  me,  protected  me. 
You  clothed  yourself  in  my  desires,  and  promoted 


VENICE 

them  on  every  occasion  ;  and  this  not  only  with- 
out having  had  of  me  any  cause  to  honour  me  so 
highly,  but  even  without  having  ever  seen  me.  " 
He  feels  he  cannot  better  discharge  the  burden  of 
his  gratitude  than  by  shaping  some  of  the  emotions 
inspired  in  him  by  his  visit  to  the  Arsenal.  There 
is  a  touch  of  sympathy  and  sometimes  even  a  touch 
of  truth  and  insight  under  the  extravagantly  sym- 
bolic garb  of  his  appreciation.  "  Admiring  first  of 
all  an  immense  number  of  porticoes,  where  as  in 
vast  maternal  wombs  I  saw  in  embryo  the  galleys 
whose  bodies  were  being  framed,  I  realised  that  I 
was  in  the  country  of  vessels,  the  fatherland  of 
galleons,  and  that  those  masses  were  so  formidable 
as  to  show  themselves  warriors  even  in  their  birth, 
fortifying  themselves  with  countless  nails  and  arm- 
ing thus  their  very  vitals  with  iron.  I  considered 
them  as  wandering  islands,  which,  united,  compose 
the  continent  of  Venetian  glory,  the  mainland  of 
the  rule  of  Christendom.  I  admired  with  joy  the 
height  of  their  masts  and  the  size  of  their  sailyards, 
and  I  called  them  forests  under  whose  shade  the 
Empire  of  the  sea  reposed  and  the  hopes  of  the 
Catholic  religion  were  fortified.  And  who,  I  said 
to  myself,  can  deny  that  this  Republic  has  subju- 
gated the  element  of  water,  when  none  of  her 
citizens  can  walk  abroad,  but  that  the  water,  as  if 

[  180  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

vanquished,  kisses  his  feet  at  every  step  ? "  Like 
all  recorders  of  the  glories  of  Venice,  he  is  struck 
dumb  at  certain  points  by  fear  of  the  charge  of  fa- 
bling, but,  collecting  himself,  he  proceeds  to  speak 
of  the  trophies  and  relics,  the  rows  of  cuirasses, 
helmets  and  swords  that  remained  as  "iron  memo- 
rials to  arm  the  years  against  oblivion  of  Venetian 
greatness.  What  revolutions  of  the  world,  what 
accidents,  what  mutations  of  state,  what  lakes  of 
tears  and  blood  did  not  the  dim  lightnings  of  those 
fierce  habiliments  present  to  the  eye  of  the  obser- 
ver ?  .  .  .  I  saw  the  remains  of  the  Venetian  fleet, 
vessels,  that,  as  old  men,  weighted  no  less  with 
years  than  glory,  reposed  under  the  magnificence 
of  the  arches  which  might  well  be  called  trium- 
phal arches.  I  saw  part  of  those  galleons  to  which 
Christianity  confesses  the  debt  of  her  preservation. 
.  .  .  And  last,  I  saw  below  the  water  so  great  a 
quantity  of  the  planks  from  which  vessels  after- 
wards are  made,  that  one  might  truly  call  it  a  treas- 
ury hidden  in  the  entrails  of  a  lake.  I  perceived 
that  these,  as  novices  in  swimming,  remained  first 
a  century  below  the  surface,  to  float  after  for  an 
eternity  of  centuries ;  and  I  remarked  that  they 
began  by  acquiring  citizenship  in  that  lake,  to  end 
by  showing  themselves  patricians  throughout  the 
seas,  and  that  there  was  good  reason  they  should 

[  181  ] 


VENICE 

plant  their  roots  well  under  water,  for  they  were 
the  trees  on  which  the  liberty  of  Venice  was  to 
flower.  "  In  his  peroration  the  eulogist  strikes  a 
deeper  note.  "  May  it  please  Almighty  God  to 
preserve  you  to  a  longest  eternity  ;  and  as  of  old 
the  nations  surrounding  you  had  so  high  an  opinion 
of  your  integrity  and  justice  that  they  came  to  you 
for  judgment  of  their  weightiest  and  most  impor- 
tant cases,  so  may  heaven  grant  that  the  whole  of 
Christendom  may  resort  always  to  your  threshold 
to  learn  the  laws  of  good  government.'* 

We  think  sadly  of  his  prayer  among  the  records 
of  abuse  and  corruption  in  the  Arsenal  of  two 
centuries  later  ;  the  Venetian  lawyers  were  still 
renowned  among  the  lawyers  of  the  world,  but 
the  State  was  no  longer  capable  of  teaching  the 
laws  of  good  government  to  Christendom.  The 
theatre,  the  coffee-house,  the  ruiotto,  the  gay  vi//eg- 
giatura  were  now  the  main  channels  of  her  activity; 
the  tide  of  life  had  flowed  back  from  the  Arsenal 
and  left  it  a  sluggish  marsh.  In  the  arts  of  ship- 
building no  advance  had  been  made,  and  the  cause 
lay  chiefly  in  an  extraordinary  slackness  of  discipline 
by  which  workmen  were  first  allowed  to  serve  in 
alternation  and  in  the  end  were  asked  for  only  one 
day's  service  in  the  month.  Many  youths  who 
had  not  even  seen  the  Arsenal  were  in  receipt  of  a 

[  182] 


TWO   VENETIAN   STATUES 

stipend  as  apprentices,  in  virtue  of  hereditary  right. 
Martinelli  tells  of  porters,  valets,  novices  and  even 
of  a  pantaloon  in  a  troop  of  comic  actors  who  were 
thus  pleasantly  provided  for.     There  was  a  scarcity 
of  tools,  and  even  the  men  in  daily  attendance  at 
the  Arsenal  spent  their  time  in  idle  lounging  and 
often   in   still   more   mischievous   occupations   for 
lack  of  anything  better  to  do ;  disobedience  and 
disloyalty  were  rife.      The  Arsenal  was  used   by 
many  as  a  place  of  winter  resort,  as  workhouses 
by  the  tramps  of  to-day,  and  the  wood  stored  for 
shipbuilding  was  consumed  in  fires  for  warming 
these  unbidden  guests,  or  made  up  into  articles  of 
furniture  for  sale  in  the  open  market.     The  report 
of  the  Inquisitors  of  the  Arsenal,  dated  March  i, 
1874,  which  Martinelli  quotes,  is  indeed  a  terrible 
confession  :  "  One  sad  experience  clearly  shows  that 
the  smallest  concession  .  .  .  becomes  rapidly  trans- 
formed into  unbridled  licence.      Not  to  mention 
the  immense  piles  of  shavings,  from  sixty  to  seventy 
thousand  vast  bundles  of  wood  disappear  annually. 
The  wastage  of  so  great  a  mass  of  wood,  more 
than  the  equivalent  of  the  complete  outfit  of  ten 
or  twelve  entire  ships  of  the   line,  is  not  to   be 
accounted  for  under  legitimate  refuse  of  normal 
work,  but  points  plainly  to  the  voluntary  destruc- 
tion of  undamaged  and  precious  material."     It  is 

[  183  1 


VENICE 

scarcely  surprising  that  with  so  little  care  for  the 
preservation  of  discipline  in  the  Arsenal  and  for 
the  efficiency  of  its  workmen  Venice  fell  behind. 
The  Arsenal  had  indeed  become,  as  Martinelli  says, 
"  a  monument  of  the  generous  conceptions  of  the 
past — a  monument,  like  the  church  and  campanile 
of  San  Marco,  beautiful,  admirable,  glorious,  but 
as  completely  incapable  as  they  of  offering  any 
.•service  to  the  State."  Similar  abuses  existed  also 
in  the  manning  of  the  ships.  The  officers  were 
for  the  most  part  idle  and  incompetent,  and  the 
despatches  of  the  Provveditori  are  a  tissue  of 
lamentable  statements  as  to  the  depression  of  that 
which  had  been,  and  while  Venice  was  to  retain 
her  supremacy,  must  ever  be,  the  mainstay  of  her 
power.  There  is  desertion  among  the  crews  and 
operatives ;  the  outfit  provided  for  them  is  unsuit- 
able and  inadequate.  Nicolo  Erizzo,  Provveditor 
Extraordinary  to  the  Islands  of  the  Levant,  con- 
cludes a  despatch,  dated  October  30,  1764,  as 
follows :  "  Thus  it  comes  about  that  your  Excel- 
lencies have  no  efficient  and  capable  officers  of 
marine,  and  if  an  occasion  were  ever  to  arise  when 
it  were  necessary  to  send  them  to  some  distant 
part,  let  me  not  be  deemed  presumptuous  if  I 
venture  frankly  to  assure  you  that  they  would  be 
in  great  straits.  I  had  a  proof  of  the  truth  of  this 

[  184  ] 


TWO    VENETIAN    STATUES 

when  I  launched  the  galley  recently  built;  for 
the  officers  themselves  begged  me  to  put  a  ship's 
captain  on  board,  since  at  a  little  distance  from 
land  they  did  not  trust  themselves,  nor  did  they 
blush  to  confess  it  in  making  this  request." 

It  was  ten  years  earlier,  in  1 744,  that  the  Ridotto, 
or  great  public  gaming-house,  was  closed  in  Venice 
by  order  of  the  Great  Council,  and  the  Venetians, 
their  chief  occupation  gone,  were  reduced  to 
melancholy  peregrination  of  the  Piazza.  "  They 
have  all  become  hypochondriacs,"  writes  Madame 
Sara  Gondar.  "  The  Jews  are  as  yellow  as  mel- 
ons ;  the  mask-sellers  are  dying  of  starvation ;  and 
wrinkles  are  growing  on  the  hands  of  many  a 
poor  old  nobleman  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
dealing  cards  ten  hours  a  day.  Vice  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  activity  of  a  state."  This  then  is 
the  Venice  against  which  Goldoni  stands  out;  and 
after  all,  the  essential  difference  between  the  world 
reflected  in  his  comedies  and  that  world  of  Gentile 
Bellini  and  Carpaccio,  which  was  Colleoni's  world, 
is  a  difference  of  horizon.  There  is  an  epic  gran- 
deur about  Carpaccio's  world :  heroes  stride  across 
it,  with  lesser  men  and  lesser  interests  in  their 
train.  The  small  affairs  of  life  are  not  neglected. 
There  is  the  Company  of  the  Stocking,  who  dis- 
cuss their  peculiar  device  and  the  articles  of  their 

[  185  ] 


VENICE 

order  with  the  grave  elaboration  of  State  coun- 
cillors. Venice  was  always  interested  in  matters 
of  detail.  But  in  Colleoni's  day  the  same  serious- 
ness of  purpose  was  available  when  larger  issues 
were  discerned:  in  Goldoni's  the  power  to  discern 
larger  issues  has  disappeared.  The  Venetians,  lords 
once  of  the  sea,  can  still  take  interest  in  their 
stockings,  but  they  can  take  interest  in  nothing 
else.  The  Lilliputians  are  in  possession.  Goldoni 
does  not  quarrel  with  his  age  for  not  being  monu- 
mental, and  we  shall  do  well  to  follow  his  example 
and  make  our  peace  with  it.  He  looks  upon  the 
clubs  of  freemasons,  the  pedantic  literary  reformers, 
the  false  romanticists,  the  bourgeois  tyrants  and 
masquerading  ladies,  with  a  serene  and  indulgent 
smile.  In  his  famous  literary  dispute  with  Gozzi 
he  maintains  before  his  fiery  opponent  the  calm 
and  level  countenance  of  truth.  The  battles  rage 
around  him,  but  he  stands  firm  and  unassailable, 
as  Colleoni  himself  may  once  have  stood  in  the 
midst  of  battles  how  different,  waged  in  how 
different  a  world ! 


[  186  ] 


Chapter  Ctgfjt 

VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

(PARTI) 

IN  Venice  it  is  difficult  to  make  choice  of  one 
route  rather  than  another,  when  the  means 
of  transit  is  indeed  an  end  in  itself,  and  in 
some  degree  the  same  delight  awaits  us  on  every 
way  we  choose.  We  may  pass  hours  on  the  Grand 
Canal  merely  combining  enjoyment  of  its  change- 
fulness  with  a  welcome  monotony  of  rest;  every 
moment  the  water  is  expressive,  every  moment  it 
lives  under  some  new  impulse  and  reveals  itself 
afresh.  Carpaccio's  picture,  The  Miracle  of  the 
Holy  Cross,  is  a  marvellous  rendering  of  the  life  of 
the  Grand  Canal ;  we  are  reminded  of  it  again  and 
again  as  we  turn  into  the  noble  sweep  of  the  waters 
at  the  angle  of  the  Ca  Foscari.  The  spirit  and 
motion  of  Venice  seem  to  be  concentrated  in  the 
picture  —  the  dark  water  alive  with  many  gondo- 
las, the  fascination  of  the  rhythmic  movements  of 
the  rowers,  at  rest  or  sharply  turning  or  slowly 
propelling.  It  has  caught  and  embodied  the 
genius  of  the  canal  —  that  ceaseless  change  and 

[  187] 


VENICE 

variation  of  angle  which  keeps  it  springing  and 
full  of  life ;  that  flowing  spirit  which  unifies  the 
palaces  and  waters  of  Venice  in  a  conspiracy  of 
beauty.  Our  gondola  in  some  mysterious  way 
enrols  us  in  this  conspiracy ;  through  its  motion 
we  consent  to  the  spirit  of  the  place.  We  are  not 
onlookers  merely  ;  the  gondola  pulses  with  the  life 
of  Venice ;  it  is  an  instrument  of  her  being.  We 
feel  as  we  move  along  that  we  are  needed  in  the 
spectacle  of  Venice,  that  we  have  a  share  in  the 
equilibrium  which  is  of  the  essence  of  her  power. 
There  is  no  means  of  city  transit  that  we  can 
imagine  to  rival  the  gondola  in  its  freedom  from 
noise  and  jostling,  in  its  realisation  of  comfort. 
But  there  are  other  reasons  why  it  must  remain 
the  essential  means  of  passage  in  Venice.  From 
the  gondola  alone  can  we  hope  to  realise  how  the 
city  stands  amid  its  waters,  how  living  the  relation 
between  land  and  water  is.  These  are  not  canals 
in  the  common  sense  of  the  word ;  they  are  living 
streams  flowing  among  islands,  each  of  which  is 
individual,  irregular,  unique.  Venice  is  not  a  tract 
of  land  cut  into  sections,  large  or  small,  by  water, 
as  is  an  inland  city  by  its  streets.  A  most  vigilant 
watch  was  kept  over  the  building  of  the  houses 
that  they  should  not  transgress  the  law  of  the 
waters  nor  interfere  with  the  relation  of  their  cur- 

[  188] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

rents  to  the  islands.  And  this  vigilance,  perhaps, 
combined  with  the  desire  of  each  owner  of  land 
to  make  use  of  it  to  the  last  fragment,  is  responsi- 
ble for  the  irregularities  and  varieties  of  angle 
which  make  the  houses  of  Venice  more  individual 
than  those  of  any  other  city.  Usually  a  wall  when 
it  has  once  displayed  to  us  its  surface  has  finished 
its  confidences  ;  it  has  no  reserves,  no  allurements ; 
it  is  rigid  and  uncompromising.  But  one  that 
breaks  from  the  level,  inclining  its  proud  profile  in 
response  to  the  tide  of  the  waterway  below  it,  is  a 
wall  of  far  greater  and  more  individual  resources. 
It  is  only  by  gondola  that  we  can  appreciate  this 
strong  element  of  personality  in  the  houses,  and 
only  by  journeying  in  a  gondola  that  we  can  learn 
to  appreciate  the  individuality  of  the  different 
quarters  of  Venice.  It  is  not  merely  that  one  is 
peopled  by  the  rich,  another  by  the  poor  ;  that  one 
region  abounds  in  ancient  palaces,  another  in 
modern  buildings ;  nor  that  peculiar  treasures  of 
art  are  associated  with  each.  Their  characters  are 
divergent.  From  the  canals  we  realise  that  Venice 
is  built  upon  separate  islands  and  we  see  their 
diversity.  The  parochial  divisions  of  the  sestieri 
do  not  exactly  follow  the  shape  of  the  islands,  but 
roughly  speaking  we  shall  find  the  waterways  in 
the  district  covered  by  each  sestiere  distinctive  in 


VENICE 

character.  Castello  and  Cannaregio,  San  Polo  and 
Dorsoduro,  each  has  its  own  recognisable  method 
of  curve,  broad  or  narrow,  wayward  or  orderly. 

The  last  joy  of  one  who  has  lived  long  in 
Venice,  as  well  as  the  first  of  the  new-comer,  will 
be  a  gondola  journey.  It  is  impossible  to  exhaust 
the  certain  beauties  of  even  a  side  canal,  not  to 
speak  of  its  casual  surprises.  If  we  are  in  haste 
and  time  is  precious,  we  do  better  to  make  our 
way  over  bridge  and  calle  with  what  dexterity  and 
speed  we  can  ;  for  it  is  an  insult  to  ask  haste  of  the 
gondola.  Yet,  if  we  accept  in  the  right  spirit  the 
extraordinary  delays  and  dilemmas  of  traffic  — 
immense,  interminable  barges  suddenly  blocking 
the  entire  canal,  or  a  flock  of  gondolas  and  sando- 
los  in  seemingly  inextricable  confusion  —  we  shall 
always  have  our  reward ;  not  only  the  pleasure  of 
watching  the  riddle  of  passage  solve  itself,  thanks 
to  the  seeming  elasticity  of  the  rio,  but  a  glint  of 
sun-jewels  on  a  new  angle  of  the  waters,  some 
richness  of  ornament  on  house  or  bridge,  some 
relic  of  ancient  Venice,  some  name  of  calle  or  rio 
will  break  upon  us  with  a  fresh  revelation.  We 
cannot  come  to  the  end  of  Venice;  she  is  in- 
exhaustible :  stealing  about  among  the  sudden 
shadows  and  broken  lights  of  her  waterways, 
sweeping  in  full,  swift  tide  round  unexpected 

[  192  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

corners  and  under  diminished  bridges,  some  new 
idea  breaks  upon  us  unawares  with  irresistible  per- 
suasion. We  cannot  define  its  meaning ;  we  can- 
not say  why  details  in  Venice  have  so  great  a 
significance.  A  window  opened  suddenly  in  one 
of  the  palaces  at  night  —  why  does  it  seem  so  por- 
tentous ?  It  is  another  of  the  manifold  gifts  of 
the  waters  to  Venice,  this  gift  of  distinction. 
Venice  is  not  like  other  cities  in  which  a  thousand 
acts  pass  unnoted.  She  has  the  distinction  of  a 
unique  individual  whose  smallest  action  is  fraught 
with  a  strange  immaterial  fragrance  that  is  un- 
mistakably its  own.  We  cannot  analyse  the  fra- 
grance ;  we  only  recognise  that  it  is  a  spiritual 
gift ;  it  emanates  only  from  subtle  and  penetrating 
natures  ;  it  is  the  aroma  of  life  itself.  To  it  we 
owe  the  strange  excitement  that  invades  us  in 
Venetian  waters,  and  makes  a  gondola  tour  far 
more  than  a  novel  mode  of  traversing  a  city.  As 
we  watch  the  citizens  of  Venice  from  the  water, 
see  them  crossing  a  bridge,  pausing  to  lean  over, 
or  carried  in  the  stream  of  passengers,  they  too 
seem  endowed  with  a  singular  vitality  ;  their  pass- 
ing and  their  standing  still  appear  alike  purposeful 
and  portentous.  What  history  might  not  be 
written  by  questioning  the  windows  that  look  out 
on  the  side  canals,  or  the  tides  that  have  ebbed  and 
'3  [  193  1 


VENICE 

flowed  in  their  channels  ?  It  would  be  a  work  of 
many  volumes  ;  for  the  private  records  of  Venice 
are  not  lacking  in  fulness.  The  Piazza  of  Bellini's 
Procession  of  the  Cross  represents  one  side  of  Vene- 
tian life,  its  solemnity,  its  assurance,  its  pomp  and 
colour ;  but  the  narrow  waters  know  another  side, 
the  domestic  festivities,  the  courtings,  weddings 
and  banquetings,  and  private  hates.  For  she  was 
strong  in  deeds  of  darkness  as  in  deeds  of  light,  and 
echoes  of  them  still  wash  against  the  basements  of 
her  houses.  Water  is  a  safer  confidant  of  blood 
than  earth,  and  the  waters  of  Venice  have  received 
their  full  share  of  such  confidences.  Ebbing  tides 
washed  out  to  sea  the  stains  of  violence  and  flowed 
in  to  pave  the  city  anew,  yet  the  atmosphere  of 
the  dark  waterways  is  more  enduring  than  material 
stains,  and  there  is  no  dark  deed  of  ancient  Venice 
to  which  they  may  not  still  supply  a  realistic 
setting. 

The  gondolier's  stock  of  knowledge  will  carry 
us  but  a  small  way  on  the  lesser  rios.  His  cata- 
logue is  ready  for  the  Grand  Canal ;  he  can  carry 
the  reader  to  the  obvious  points  of  interest  the 
guide-book  enumerates,  but  his  information  does 
not  usually  comprise  even  the  most  beautiful  of 
the  palaces  of  the  side  canals,  and  on  the  more 
familiar  routes  there  is  much  to  discover  for  one- 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

self.  Moreover  there  are  aspects  of  a  gondola  tour 
which  the  guide-book  cannot  include,  but  which 
are  none  the  less  important  for  those  who  really 
wish  to  know  the  physiognomy  of  Venice.  And 
one  is  the  time  of  day  at  which  it  is  to  be  taken. 
Venice  is  the  city  of  light  —  more  luminous  than 
any  other  city  ;  and  if  it  is  true  that  new  light  or 
shadow  everywhere  alters  the  aspect  of  familiar 
objects,  it  is  infinitely  truer  in  Venice  where  each 
moment  witnesses  the  birth  of  some  new  and 
wonderful  offspring  of  the  light.  If  one,  who  has 
known  the  statue  of  Colleoni  against  the  intense 
blue  of  the  midday  sky,  comes  on  him  suddenly 
when  the  Campo  is  in  shadow  and  the  Scuola  di 
San  Marco  alone  still  receives  the  light  upon  the 
rare  marble  of  its  upper  fa9ade,  he  will  find  that, 
as  the  definition  of  the  stern  features  is  lost,  a  note 
of  tenderness  steals  into  the  proud  assertion  of  the 
face.  It  seems  a  fresh  revelation  of  character,  this 
change  wrought  by  a  new  light  in  the  known  and 
familiar,  and  it  is  one  of  the  peculiar  creative  gifts 
of  Venice. 

In  considering  some  of  the  most  noteworthy 
subjects  in  the  city  as  she  now  is,  we  may  imagine 
a  gondola  tour  on  a  day  of  the  high  tides  in  De- 
cember, when  the  water  washes  in  long  smooth 
waves  almost  up  to  the  feet  of  the  Lion  and  St. 

[  197  1 


VENICE 

Theodore,  and  gives  to  the  Molo  the  exhilarating 
effect  of  a  sea-shore.  The  spring  tide  spurts  and 
bubbles  through  the  gratings  in  the  Piazza  and 
Piazzetta,  to  unite  in  a  lake  which  covers  the 
whole  pavement  till  it  deepens  in  the  atrium  of 
San  Marco  and  the  heavy  outer  doors  are  closed. 
As  the  waters  rise,  the  dominion  of  light  is  ex- 
tended ;  the  chequered  marbles  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  take  on  a  new  brilliance,  and  the  agate  eyes 
of  the  Lion  glow  and  sparkle  as  he  looks  across 
the  sun-paths  to  the  sea.  We  will  imagine  our- 
selves embarking  at  the  Piazzetta  and  turning  into 
Venice  from  the  Basin  of  San  Marco,  under  the 
Ponte  della  Paglia  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The 
entrance  into  the  Rio  del  Palazzo  is  flanked  on 
one  side  by  what  was  formerly  the  eastern  tower 
of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Relics  of  a  Byzantine  frieze 
are  all  that  now  remain  of  it;  the  rest  is  lost  in 
the  grand  eastern  wall  of  the  palace — a  superb 
monument  of  the  first  Renaissance.  This  wall 
would  provide  material  for  many  hours  of  study 
in  the  rich  variety  of  its  sculptures.  Not  a  capital 
or  column  is  left  unadorned,  and  each  is  particu- 
larised with  an  apparently  inexhaustible  variety  of 
design.  The  two  massive,  projecting  balconies 
of  the  Anti  Sala  dei  Pregadi,  overhanging  the  rio, 
which  presented  to  the  sculptor  some  at  least  of 

[  198  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

the  problems  of  ceiling  decoration,  are  richly 
carved  beneath  with  deep  circular  roses.  The  re- 
motest corners  are  worked  with  the  same  conscien- 
tious detail  as  the  more  conspicuous,  and  each  with 
a  view  to  its  position  above  the  rio.  As  our  eyes 
grow  accustomed  to  the  comparative  darkness  of  the 
canal,  we  see  that  lions  look  down  on  us  from  the 
arches  of  the  topmost  windows,  and  that  some  of  the 
upper  columns  are  surrounded  by  a  band  of  sculp- 
ture similar  to  that  on  the  pillars  of  the  fa£ade  of  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  Amid  the  wealth  of  sculp- 
tured stone  there  is  an  impressive  severity  in  the 
discs  of  porphyry  set  at  intervals  along  the  wall  ; 
but  perhaps  its  greatest  beauty  is  the  ducal  shield 
bearing  the  Barbarigo  arms.  This  shield,  placed 
over  a  low  water-door,  is  upheld  by  two  winged 
pages  with  lighted  torches  in  their  hands,  who  are 
themselves  like  songs  of  light  in  their  graceful  and 
spirited  beauty.  Massiveness  and  grace  are  magnifi- 
cently combined  in  this  east  wall  of  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace ;  it  is  at  once  solemn  and  brilliant ;  and  as  we 
look  back  to  its  angle  with  the  Riva,  the  rose  and 
snowy  marbles  gleam  as  if  they  were  transparent. 

A  little  further  and  the  waters  have  us  in  their 
power.  The  Ponte  di  Canonica  denies  us  passage ; 
the  tide  is  too  high  for  us  to  pass  beneath  it,  and 
we  are  forced  to  return  to  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni. 


VENICE 

But  before  we  turn  we  may  see  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  Renaissance  palaces  rising  in  clear 
whiteness  against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The  Greek 
marble  of  its  surface  is  inlaid  with  circles  of  ser- 
pentine and  porphyry  ;  on  either  side  of  the  central 
building  two  scrolls,  inlaid  with  palm  leaves,  bear 
the  words,  Honor  et  gloria  Deo  solo,  and  higher  in  the 
wall  are  marble  slabs  most  delicately  designed  with 
animals,  birds  and  foliage.  A  mitre,  crown,  and 
crosier,  and  various  other  articles  of  head-dress  are 
represented  in  the  stone,  but  the  Capello  family  had 
many  branches  in  Venice,  and  of  the  owners  of  this 
particular  palace  even  Tassini  has  no  record.  The 
most  beautiful  of  its  features  is  set  high  up,  almost 
too  high  to  be  comfortably  seen  from  the  water  — 
two  young  companion  figures  of  the  first  Renais- 
sance, full  of  grace  and  imagination  and  strength, 
each  with  spear,  and  scales,  and  casque  surmounted 
by  three  heads.  These  twin  warrior  angels  look 
out  with  serene  strength  into  the  day ;  they  are 
lightly  armed,  but  poised  and  ready  for  battle. 
The  duplication  of  their  winged  figures,  and  the 
height  at  which  they  are  placed,  makes  us  think 
of  them  primarily  as  decorative  sculptures ;  they 
cannot  possess  the  intimate  charm  of  the  young 
warrior  of  the  Palazzo  Civran,  but  they  endow  the 
harmonious  marbles  of  this  palace  front  with  a  dis- 

[  200  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

tinction  and  character  which  give  it  rank  among 
the  first  houses  of  the  greatest  period  in  Venice. 
After  the  rains,  these  precious  marbles  shine  with 
a  peculiar  lustre,  and  the  Palazzo  Capello  as  it 
appears  to-day  is  worthy  of  comparison  with  the 
Palazzo  Dario,  which  glows  with  serpentine  and 
porphyry  beside  the  Grand  Canal,  fresh  and  fine 
and  delicate  as  on  the  day  of  its  completion. 

As  the  water  is  still  rising  and  the  Ponte  di 
Canonica  will  not  allow  room  to  pass,  we  must 
move  along  the  shining  waters  of  San  Marco  till 
we  find  a  more  hospitable  waterway.  With  diffi- 
culty we  get  under  the  Ponte  del  Sepolcro  and 
thence  down  the  Rio  della  Pieta  in  which,  at  the 
distance  of  a  few  strokes,  we  may  land  if  we  will 
at  a  low  sotto-portico  leading  to  San  Giovanni  in 
Bragora,  where  Cima's  noble  picture,  The  Baptism 
of  Christ,  is  imprisoned  behind  a  stifling  modern 
altar  which  makes  it  impossible  to  study  the  com- 
position as  a  whole.  A  little  farther,  passing  a  fine 
ogival  palace  on  our  right,  we  halt  before  a  plas- 
tered barocco  house  with  remnants  of  Byzantine 
window-posts  on  an  upper  story.  But  our  chief 
interest  lies  this  time  in  the  basement,  in  a  low, 
narrow  arch,  the  crowns  of  whose  pillars,  richly 
worked  in  marmo  greco  with  griffins  and  lions, 
are,  even  in  time  of  normal  tides,  little  above  the 

[  203  ] 


VENICE 

level  of  the  water,  though  probably  the  arch  once 
rested  on  pillars  not  less  than  ten  feet  high.  This 
buried  arch  is  eloquent  of  the  rising  of  the  waters 
on  Venice.  It  arrests  us  by  the  beauty  of  its  work- 
manship ;  but  it  is  one  of  many  that  we  must 
pass  on  each  canal,  though  not  all  have  placidly 
accepted  submergence ;  many  have  kept  above  the 
water  by  accepting  the  addition  of  a  capital  or 
crown.  Elsewhere  there  are  notable  examples  of 
this  patchwork  of  which  Venice  never  is  ashamed 
and  which  has  produced  much  in  her  of  the  great- 
est interest.  In  the  Salizzada  di  San  Lio,  in  the 
sestiere  of  San  Giustina,  is  a  pillar,  supporting  one 
side  of  a  sotto-portico,  in  which  a  whole  page  of 
Venetian  history  is  comprised.  Looking  into  it, 
we  see  that  it  is  composed  of  two  distinct  portions, 
that  it  has  in  fact  two  capitals  —  a  capital  of  the 
early  Renaissance  superimposed  on  a  Byzantine 
column  which  retains  its  own.  They  stand  hap- 
pily united,  these  children  of  two  ages,  but  we 
naturally  ask  ourselves  the  reason  of  their  juncture, 
and  the  answer  is  that  the  Byzantine  pillar  was 
once  sufficient  to  itself;  it  had  no  need  of  a  crown 
to  complete  its  dignity  or  service.  No  weight  of 
years  has  shrunk  it  to  these  dwarfed  proportions. 
It  is  the  rising  of  earth  from  below,  not  pressure 
from  above,  which  has  reduced  it.  The  soil  of 

[  204  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

Venice  has  been  raised,  inch  by  inch  and  foot  by 
foot,  in  defence  against  her  submergence.  Many 
basements  have  become  uninhabitable,  and  Gallic- 
cioli  records  that  in  the  church  of  SS.  Vito  e  Mo- 
desta  an  ancient  pavement  was  discovered  eight 
feet  below  the  existing  one,  while  in  SS.  Simone  e 
Giuda  three  levels  were  found  one  above  another. 
In  San  Marco  a  confessional  similar  to  that  still  at 
Torcello,  after  having  been  lost  sight  of  for  several 
centuries,  was  found  three  feet  below  the  soil  and 
one  and  a  half  feet  below  the  ordinary  level  of  the 
water.  Our  pillar,  therefore,  which  at  one  time 
planted  its  foot  firmly  on  the  ground,  has  been 
gradually  buried  alive,  and  to  preserve  the  service- 
ableness,  as  well  as  the  dignity  of  the  portico  —  in 
fact,  to  secure  its  existence  as  a  sotto-portico  at  all 
—  a  new  head  had  to  be  added  to  the  Byzantine 
pillar  to  supply  the  theft  at  its  foot.  The  incident 
is  rich  in  suggestion  of  the  achievement  of  the 
Venetian  builders,  of  the  delicate  counterpoise  and 
equilibrium,  the  ceaseless  give-and-take  required  in 
this  city  of  the  sea.  Venice  was  crowned  queen, 
but  her  dominion  could  only  be  maintained  by 
understanding  and  reverence  of  the  element  she 
ruled.  To  be  glorious  she  had  to  be  most  humble  ; 
for  the  element  she  constrained  is  one  no  human 
power  can  subdue ;  it  would  kiss  her  feet,  it  would 

[  205  ] 


VENICE 

endow  her  with  glory,  but  it  would  not  surrender 
its  life.  A  thousand  times  more  glorious  should 
be  her  dominion,  but  a  thousand  times  more  subtle 
must  be  her  insight  and  her  sway.  Her  finger 
must  be  ever  on  the  pulse  of  this  living  force,  she 
must  hold  the  key  of  its  temperament  in  her  hand, 
she  must  know  when  to  submit.  The  wedding 
of  Venice  and  the  sea  was  not  the  submersion  of 
one  personality  in  another,  it  was  a  union  involv- 
ing infinite  tact,  infinite  insight  and  acceptance. 

We  move  forward  again  under  the  Ponte  di 
Sant'  Antonin  beside  the  Fondamenta  dei  Furlani 
or  Friulani,  to  the  little  building  at  its  further  end, 
a  sombre  little  building  with  heavily  barred  win- 
dows, but  with  a  sculptured  fa9ade.  Its  outer 
door  is  never  more  than  half  open ;  it  appears  to 
admit  visitors  reluctantly,  and,  however  bright  the 
sunshine  in  the  world  outside,  our  first  impression 
of  San  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni  is  always  gloomy. 
Only  for  two  short  hours,  from  ten  to  twelve  in 
the  morning,  the  chapel  is  open  —  short,  because 
the  sacristan  keeps  jealous  watch  upon  the  clock 
and,  as  if  it  were  with  the  booming  of  the  great 
gun  from  the  royal  palace  that  his  true  day  began, 
hurries  to  close  the  remaining  wing  of  the  outer 
door,  and  bar  the  chapel  into  solitude  and  darkness. 
Carpaccio's  pictures  were  painted  for  the  light. 

[  206  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

Their  original  home  was  not  the  Schiavoni  chapel, 
but  the  School  which,  till  1451,  the  Confrater- 
nity of  St.  George  and  St.  Triphonius  owned  in 
the  convent  of  San  Catterina  in  the  northern  ex- 
tremity of  Venice  near  the  Fondamenta  Nuova. 
The  chapel  of  the  Schiavoni  needs  more  daylight, 
and  even  such  as  is  obtainable  is  not  freely  enough 
admitted  ;  but  Carpaccio  is  a  magician  whose  spell 
can  release  us  from  all  consciousness  of  discomfort. 
The  chapel  is  an  intimate  revelation  of  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  characters  in  Venetian  history.  It 
is  the  completest  record  of  Carpaccio  that  exists, 
the  series  of  paintings  in  which  his  imagination 
has  the  fullest  range.  It  is  not  as  a  portrait  painter 
of  Venice  and  the  Venetians  that  Carpaccio  is  here 
employed,  his  scope  is  wider  and  the  whole  spirit 
of  his  treatment  is  different.  The  St.  Ursula  series 
is  not  lacking  in  subtle  personal  touches ;  but  it  is 
not  intimate  in  the  same  degree  as  the  St.  George, 
and  it  does  not  touch  the  level  of  personal  inten- 
sity of  the  St.  'Jerome.  There  are  psychological 
touches  in  this  chapel  of  the  Schiavoni  which  it 
would  be  hard  to  rival  in  modern  art ;  we  are 
companioned  here  by  one  of  the  most  humorous, 
tender,  profound  and  understanding  of  natures,  one 
who  reflects  upon  life  in  the  spirit  of  joy  and  whose 
painful  experiences  never  prevailed  against  his  as- 

[  207  ] 


VENICE 

surance  of  beauty.  As  is  always  the  case  with 
Carpaccio,  each  picture,  though  one  of  a  series,  is 
complete  in  itself.  Except  with  St.  Jerome,  the 
painter  shows  even  a  certain  carelessness  of  the 
preservation  of  identity  in  his  hero :  St.  George 
becomes  steadily  younger  from  the  time  of  his 
combat  with  the  dragon,  till,  in  the  third  of  the 
series,  a  mere  boy  is  represented  as  presiding  at  the 
baptism  of  the  king  and  princess.  The  figure  of 
St.  George  in  the  fight  with  the  dragon  is  magnifi- 
cent. No  comparisons  are  necessary  to  convince 
us  of  its  greatness  of  conception ;  but  if  we  con- 
sider for  a  moment  Basaiti's  treatment  of  this  sub- 
ject, we  shall  understand  better  the  material  of 
which  Carpaccio  is  made.  Basaiti's  St.  George  is 
a  sentimentalist  even  in  this  moment  of  stress ;  his 
sword-thrust  and  the  spirit  expressed  in  his  face 
are  disconnected.  With  Carpaccio  the  source  of 
St.  George's  action  is  his  will.  The  spirit  of  the 
sword-thrust  is  revealed  in  the  thrilling  purpose  of 
his  armoured  limbs,  which  no  metal  can  obscure. 
He  is  not  thinking  of  graces,  but  the  purpose  with 
which  he  is  instinct  creates  its  own  harmony ;  he 
is  one  who  must  prevail.  When  the  stress  of  the 
action  is  past,  his  face  hardly  seems  striking,  but 
here  it  is  so  pierced  with  light,  as  it  gleams  in 
paleness  against  the  aureole  of  hair,  that  it  has 

[  208  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

become  a  living  flame.  Rarely  has  such  glory  of 
purpose  and  burning  intensity  of  will  been  con- 
veyed in  a  human  face  upon  canvas.  And  all  the 
details  of  this  picture  are  invested  with  an  accord- 
ant beauty.  Even  the  grotesque  fancy  that  seems 
to  riot  in  the  horrors  of  material  death  has  had  to 
give  way  before  it.  The  face  of  the  maiden,  who 
lies,  half-eaten,  close  to  the  dragon's  feet,  is  as  ex- 
quisite in  her  death-sleep  as  that  of  St.  Ursula  in 
her  royal  chamber  ;  and  the  mutilated  youth  under 
the  body  of  the  horse  is  not  less  lovely.  The 
horse's  face  is  wonderful ;  his  large  eyes  drink  in 
the  purpose  of  his  master ;  his  tongue  lolls ;  his 
mane  streams  wildly  as  he  rushes  against  the  wind. 
Like  Colleoni's  horse  he  triumphs  under  his  rider, 
not  so  much  ridden  as  a  sharer  in  his  progress ; 
but  he,  like  his  master,  moves  in  another  and  more 
romantic  world  than  Colleoni.  Never  was  horse 
more  gloriously  or  more  worthily  caparisoned  ;  his 
trappings  are  of  scarlet,  stamped  with  classic  heads 
and  chased  with  bronze;  his  bridle  of  the  richest 
gilded  leather  set  with  gems.  And  the  dragon  too 
is  beautiful.  If  we  compare  this  trampling,  vivid 
creature  of  the  luminous  eyes  with  the  crawling 
worm  against  which  St.  George  raises  his  sword  in 
the  suceeding  picture,  we  shall  feel  something  of 
the  meaning  of  the  breath  of  life.  The  very  colour 
«*  [  209  ] 


VENICE 

of  his  skin  seems  to  have  flowed  through  him  with 
his  blood ;  he  is  abjectly  grey  when  dragged  on  to 
the  Piazza.  This  transformation  of  the  dragon  is 
a  great  feat,  the  greater  when  we  remember  that 
even  when  he  first  appears,  the  virtue  is  beginning 
to  go  out  of  him,  his  claws  are  already  beating  the 
air  with  growing  impotence.  This  first  picture 
of  the  St.  George  series  is  the  most  complete  lyric 
of  Carpaccio's  that  we  possess ;  it  is  an  episode  of 
high  romance,  and  its  landscape  is  conceived  in 
the  spirit  of  romantic  fantasy.  We  have  noted 
elsewhere  the  treatment  of  the  buildings,  the  way 
the  city,  which  at  first  sight  seems  of  a  dream-like 
quality,  like  the  port  whence  St.  Ursula's  prince  sets 
out,  defines  itself  gradually  as  a  solid,  fortified 
citadel,  half  hidden  behind  oriental  watch-towers. 
But  we  have  still  to  note  the  inspiration  with  which 
Carpaccio  has  unified  these  defences  with  the  grand 
sweep  of  the  coast-line.  The  huge  cliffs  which 
enclose  the  bay  on  the  left,  stretching  out  to  the 
yellow  light,  are  worthy  to  rank  with  those  in 
Turner's  Ulysses  and  Polyphemus.  The  landscape 
to  the  right  of  the  bay  is  freer  and  more  fanciful. 
A  cupolaed  duomo  crowns  the  cliff  behind  the 
princess.  Men  and  horses  move  on  the  huge  pro- 
jecting rock,  joined  to  the  main  cliff  only  by  a 
natural  arch  and  by  a  high-swung  delicate  bridge. 

r  210 1 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

The  houses  among  the  trees  and  the  horsemen 
moving  over  the  dizzy  bridge  enhance  the  roman- 
tic strangeness  of  effect.  The  framing  by  this 
rugged  arch  of  a  full-rigged  vessel  upon  the  open 
sea  is  one  of  Carpaccio's  happiest  fancies.  The 
devastated  shore,  the  sea  flowing  into  the  city,  the 
yellow  of  the  sky  above  the  horizon  passing  into 
a  troubled  paleness  of  cloud-flecked  blue,  the  wind- 
driven  vessel  on  the  high  sea,  the  suggestion  of 
vast  ocean  spaces  —  all  these  combine  in  the  imag- 
inative grandeur  of  effect.  The  second  picture  of 
the  series,  St.  George's  Return,  is  very  different  in 
atmosphere.  It  is  filled  with  sunlight,  the  tramp- 
ling of  victory  and  the  sound  of  music.  Its  key- 
note is  victorious  joy  and  pomp  of  festival,  sounded 
in  the  spacious  sunniness  of  the  Piazza  and  the 
horizon  of  slope  and  mountains  beyond  ;  sustained 
in  the  buildings  that  surround  the  square  and  the 
airy  pinnacles  and  balconies  crowded  with  on- 
lookers, and  in  the  flags  that  fly  round  the  octag- 
onal building  winging  it  with  air.  The  radiant 
flowered  brocades  compete  with  the  trappings  of 
the  horses  to  perfect  the  scene  ;  and  through  it, 
and  round  it,  sounds  the  music  of  drum  and 
trumpet  from  the  turbaned  band  which  forms  a 
background  to  the  royal  party,  drawing  them,  as 
it  were,  into  the  sweep  of  the  central  square  where 

[  211  ] 


VENICE 

St.  George  officiates.  All  moves  to  the  measure  of 
glad  yet  solemn  music  ;  here  is  no  lightning  stroke, 
no  sudden  motion ;  the  muscles  of  action  are  re- 
laxed, in  slow  measure  the  horses  paw  the  ground. 
The  third  picture,  The  Baptism  of  King  and  Princess , 
is  still  pervaded  with  music.  The  musicians  lead 
in  the  scene ;  the  three  foreground  trumpeters, 
conspicuous  on  the  carpeted  dais,  seem  to  be 
trumpeting  for  their  lives.  The  golden,  cavernous 
trumpet-mouth  pointing  directly  at  us  has  a  strangely 
inspiring  effect,  seeming  to  invade  us  with  sound 
breaking  on  the  heavy  roll  of  the  meditative  drum- 
mer. The  music  connects  itself  with  the  back- 
ground and  helps  to  widen  the  horizon.  There  is 
not  one  of  these  pictures  which  is  not  enlarged  by 
the  suggestion,  at  least,  of  some  wide  background 
of  nature.  Sometimes,  as  in  these  jubilant  scenes, 
it  enhances  and  extends  the  gladness  of  the  festival, 
sometimes  it  wings  our  spirits  amid  conditions  that 
burden  and  confine.  In  the  first  of  the  St.  Jerome 
series,  for  instance,  where  the  lion  arrives,  the  first 
point  that  strikes  us  is  the  obvious  humour  of  the 
scene,  the  effect  of  the  entry  of  this  gentlest  and 
most  companionable  of  beasts  on  the  Brethren  of 
the  cloister.  They  do  not  wait  to  determine  its 
intentions  :  it  is  a  lion.  It  is  wounded  and  asking 
sympathy,  but  the  Brothers  have  attention  for  noth- 

[  212  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

ing  but  their  fears.  But  below  the  humour  there 
is  tragedy.  It  is  not  the  quaintness  of  the  lion,  or 
the  scattering  monks,  or  the  beasts  on  the  grassy 
square,  or  all  the  varied  monotony  of  that  beautiful 
frescoed  cloister,  that  claim  our  attention  as  the 
heart  of  the  picture.  It  is  the  bent  and  aged  fig- 
ure of  St.  Jerome.  His  features  are  the  same  as 
in  the  study  scene,  but  his  mature  youth  has  given 
place  to  snowy  age.  And  another  change  has 
come  over  his  face ;  the  radiance  of  the  study 
scene  is  replaced  by  bewildered  sorrow  slightly 
touched  with  contempt.  A  loneliness  is  now  in 
his  face.  In  his  study  he  was  at  peace  commun- 
ing with  other  minds  or  with  the  mind  of  God. 
But  here  with  the  monks  he  is  bewildered  —  be- 
wildered and  oppressed.  We  seem  to  see  him 
ageing  as  he  eyes  his  foolish  companions.  Is  this, 
he  seems  to  question,  the  fruit  of  his  long  sojourn  ? 
He  has  asked  the  sympathy  of  the  Brothers,  and 
they  are  beside  themselves  with  fear.  There  is 
deep  pathos  in  this  aged  figure  making  his  appeal 
in  vain,  and  if  the  cloister  filled  the  horizon,  the 
effect  on  our  spirits  would  be  stifling.  But  there 
is  a  great  sky  overhead,  there  is  an  orange  tree, 
"  that  busy  plant,"  there  is  a  winding  way  amidst 
the  vista  of  palm  trees  and  blue  hills,  there  is  the 
great  desert  whence  the  lion  has  come.  The  Death 

[  213  ] 


VENICE 

of  St.  Jerome  affords  a  still  more  impressive  example 
of  this  kind  of  relief.  Here  we  are  not  walled 
in,  the  desert  is  around  us ;  we  see  it  through  the 
gateway  by  the  well  and  through  the  porticoes  of 
the  buildings,  and  above  it  in  purple  outline  rise 
the  snow-capped  mountains.  And  this  wide  hori- 
zon is  peculiarly  welcome  as  an  escape  from  the 
confinement  of  spirit  expressed  in  the  funeral  pro- 
cession. The  gladness  of  the  open  country,  the 
hills  and  mountains,  the  palm-tree  signposts  along 
the  desert  way,  are  a  relief  to  the  lion's  agony. 
For  the  lion  is  the  keynote  of  the  picture,  though 
it  is  struck  so  quietly  that  at  first  we  may  even  be 
unconscious  of  its  sounding.  In  the  foreground  on 
a  narrow  strip  of  pavement  lies  the  body  of  St. 
Jerome.  His  head  rests  upon  a  stone  and  his  long 
beard  lies  straight  and  smooth  upon  his  breast.  It 
is  quite  lifeless,  this  body,  but  the  kneeling  Brothers 
think  their  master  is  before  them.  There  are 
wonderful  character  studies  among  these  Brothers, 
sensual  and  simple  and  devout.  Those  Carpaccio 
has  chosen  to  read  the  Office  for  the  Dead  are  the 
most  lifeless.  The  skull  on  the  blasted  tree  trunk, 
which  his  love  of  the  grotesque  has  inserted  in  the 
angle  of  the  wall,  seems  a  fit  symbol  of  the  sov- 
ereignty they  acknowledge.  But  we  have  already 
noted  the  existence  of  another  actor  in  the  scene. 

[  214  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

In  front  of  a  little  group  of  buildings  under  a 
broad  rustic  portico  lies  the  lion,  not  inert  like 
his  master  or  like  the  monks  who  perform  the 
rites  of  the  dead,  not  now  a  suppliant,  deprecating 
lion.  His  paw  tears  the  ground,  his  head  is  raised  ; 
he  roars  in  the  agony  of  his  bereavement.  He  is 
no  longer  feared,  it  seems ;  custom  has  staled  the 
terrors  of  him.  To  the  Brothers  he  is  merely 
another  animal  of  the  menagerie,  one  of  the  last 
whims  of  Brother  Jerome.  Yet  he  understands 
that  his  master  is  not  here  in  this  square  of  the 
convent.  He  has  long  been  content ;  but  now  the 
desert  calls  to  him  and  he  answers  with  the  voice 
of  the  desert  that  he  had  unlearned  for  a  while. 
We  have  mentioned  only  a  few  of  the  series  of 
paintings  in  this  wonderful  chapel,  and  even  of 
them  the  greater  part  has  been  left  unsaid.  Each 
picture  requires  the  whole  of  the  two  hours,  the 
Scuola  allows,  for  study  of  them  all ;  but,  in  com- 
ing to  them  from  time  to  time  for  a  few  moments 
only,  we  may  constantly  discover  some  new  token 
of  their  artist's  insight  and  understanding,  some 
richness  of  composition,  some  delicacy  of  colour, 
some  intimate  detail  of  workmanship  which  makes 
us  feel  Carpaccio's  presence.  The  beauties  of  St. 
Jerome's  study  are  almost  inexhaustible  ;  the  details 
of  this  exquisite  room  will  reveal  to  us  much  of 

[215  ] 


VENICE 

Carpaccio  and  of  Venice.  Nothing  is  in  it  by 
chance  or  because  space  has  to  be  filled.  The  gold 
and  rose  of  the  apse,  the  marble  of  its  pillars,  the 
painted  ceiling  and  richly  bound  manuscripts,  the 
delicate  bronzes,  the  colouring  of  the  walls, 
the  tiny  white  dog  (forerunner  of  the  lion),  the 
crosier  and  crimson  cushion,  all  are  expressive. 
And  there  is  one  touch  —  for  which  we  give 
thanks  to  the  artist  —  unobtrusive  but  surely  signif- 
icant ;  the  candles  on  either  wall  are  held  in  the 
bronze  fore-paws  of  a  lion.  This  Chapel  of  the 
Schiavoni  has  not  gone  unscathed  ;  during  a  fire 
that  two  years  ago  destroyed  a  warehouse  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  canal,  the  water  from  the 
engines  poured  through  the  roof  of  the  chapel, 
injuring  the  pictures  on  the  wall  nearest  the  rio  — 
the  Combat  of  St.  George  and  his  Return  with  the 
Dragon. 

Leaving  the  sestiere  of  Santa  Giustina,  with  its 
relics  of  ancient  Venice  and  its  famous  Palace  of 
the  Contarini,  on  our  right,  and  also  on  our  right, 
the  Church  of  San  Francesco  della  Vigna,  where 
in  the  darkness  of  the  Giustiniani  Chapel  are  pre- 
served some  of  the  most  beautiful  sculptures  of  the 
Lombardi,  we  turn  sharply  to  the  left  into  the  Rio 
del  Pestrin,  and  again  to  the  left  into  the  Rio  San 
Lorenzo.  This  Rio  San  Lorenzo  is  the  scene  of 

[  216  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

one  of  Gentile  Bellini's  most  famous  pictures.  We 
are  parallel  here  with  the  Rio  di  Sant'  Antonin,  by 
which  we  came  from  the  basin  of  St.  Mark.  The 
miracle  represented  by  Bellini  as  taking  place  here 
is  one  of  those  connected  with  a  fragment  of  the 
true  Cross  belonging  to  the  School  of  San  Giovanni 
Evangelista.  Some  of  the  finest  artistic  power  of 
Venice  was  lavished  in  honouring  the  virtues  of 
this  relic,  and  we  owe  to  it  inestimably  precious 
records  of  the  city  in  the  days  of  her  splendour. 
We  understand  in  watching  Bellini's  procession 
something  of  the  nature  of  those  ever-recurring 
ceremonies  which  made  Casola  feel  that  the  Vene- 
tians must  needs  be  specially  beloved  of  God.  The 
three-arched  bridge  of  San  Lorenzo,  which  is  the 
structural  centre  of  the  composition,  is  thronged 
with  a  white-robed  confraternity  bearing  splendid 
candles  which  glint  among  the  trees  that  are  tied 
upon  the  bridge,  and  that  we  see  receding  into  the 
campo  of  the  church  which  is  hidden  from  us.  In 
the  centre  of  the  bridge  is  fixed  the  banner  of  the 
Confraternity,  waving  in  the  wind.  The  throng 
upon  the  bridge  is  by  no  means  idle ;  there  is  the 
effect  of  that  incessant  movement  of  which  one  is 
conscious  in  the  densest  crowd,  and  those  at  its 
edge  are  eagerly  watching  the  doings  in  the 
water.  It  is  indeed  the  water  that  excites  our 

[  217  ] 


VENICE 

chief  interest ;  Bellini  has  contrived  to  perpetuate 
numberless  familiar  graces  and  dignities  in  the 
rowers  whom  we  see  framed  by  the  central  arch 
of  the  bridge,  or  holding  up  their  boats  alongside 
of  it.  But  it  is  the  novel  element  of  the  swimmers 
in  the  canal  which  gives  the  picture  a  unique  place 
in  our  regard.  In  the  space  of  water  between  the 
bridge  and  the  temporary  platform  in  the  imme- 
diate foreground,  where  kneels  a  monumental 
little  company  of  Venetian  gentlemen  —  tradition 
says  the  family  of  the  Bellini  —  is  an  aquatic 
display  of  the  most  delicate  order.  Four  of  the 
Brothers  swim  in  the  clear  green  water,  upheld 
by  their  flowing  robes  like  a  water-lily  by  its 
leaves,  and  one,  the  Grand  Guardian  —  as  he 
treads  water  with  admirable  equilibrium  and  an 
easy  grace  that  is  beyond  all  praise  —  holds  up 
on  high  the  precious  Cross.  No  words  can 
describe  the  delight  that  these  swimmers  afford 
us.  Their  whole  heart  is  in  the  quest ;  two  of 
them,  an  old  man  and  a  young,  who  have  been 
pursuing  the  elusive  trophy  in  vain,  have  seen  the 
discovery  and  slackened  their  strokes ;  but  one, 
who  has  evidently  just  dived  off  the  fondamenta, 
is  striking  boldly  out  and  trying  with  down- turned 
face  to  penetrate  the  depths  of  the  green  water. 
The  negro,  stripped,  and  ready  for  a  plunge,  who 

[  218  ] 


I, 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

stands  quaking  on  the  lowest  step  of  a  wooden 
landing-stage  opposite,  affords  a  delightful  foil 
to  the  Brothers  who  swim  with  such  careless 
proficiency  despite  their  encumbering  robes.  If 
he  would  but  look  up,  he  would  see  that  his 
courage  need  not  be  put  to  the  test  —  that  the 
lost  treasure  is  already  sailing  triumphantly  ashore. 
To  identify  the  exact  scene  of  the  picture,  we 
shall  do  well  to  pass  into  the  Rio  San  Lorenzo 
from  the  Rio  del  Pestrin  and  take  up  our  stand 
a  little  beyond  the  Ponte  San  Lorenzo  at  about 
the  point  of  Bellini's  wooden  bridge.  Looking 
back  we  have  now  in  front  of  us  the  present 
Ponte  San  Lorenzo  in  place  of  Bellini's  beautiful 
three-arched  bridge,  spanning  the  canal  between 
the  long  fondamenta  on  our  left,  and  the  campo 
and  Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  which  are  still — as 
in  the  picture  —  wedged  between  the  buildings  on 
our  right.  The  minute  private  fondamenta  also, 
where  in  the  picture  kneel  two  of  the  foremost 
of  the  procession,  is  still  in  existence.  On  our 
left  is  the  fondamenta  in  front  of  Bellini's  beautiful 
frescoed  house,  and  beyond  it  several  houses  of 
irregular  heights,  as  in  the  picture,  while  the 
horizon  on  this  side  is  still  filled  by  the  main 
features  of  Bellini's  background  —  another  Palazzo 
Capello  bounded  on  three  sides  by  water,  the  Rio 

[  221  ] 


VENICE 

Pestrin,  the  Rio  San  Lorenzo,  and  the  Rio  San 
Giovanni  Laterano.  The  palace  retains  some  of 
its  grandeur;  it  is  easily  recognisable  by  its  shape, 
though  to-day  it  is  one  storey  higher.  The  Capello 
arms  are  still  to  be  seen  on  it,  but  it  has  been 
robbed  of  most  of  its  glories  of  marble  and  colour. 
There  is  a  certain  melancholy  as  well  as  a  fasci- 
nation in  attempting  to  reconstruct  the  scene  of 
the  picture.  In  the  Gallery,  when  we  are  face  to 
face  with  the  frescoed  houses  that  we  may  only 
see  foreshortened,  we  long  to  join  the  spectators 
across  the  rio  and  complete  those  tantalising 
fragments  of  centaurs  and  figures  on  horseback 
that  combine  with  more  conventional  ornaments 
to  decorate  the  palace  on  the  fondamenta.  But 
now  we  are  face  to  face  with  reality,  the  frescoes 
are  no  more.  With  the  exception  of  the  Palazzo 
Capello  it  is  only  the  shape  and  relative  position 
of  the  houses  that  assures  to  us  their  identity. 

In  Bellini's  time  this  corner  by  San  Lorenzo 
was  splendid  indeed.  The  Capello  family,  which, 
according  to  the  chroniclers,  was  numbered  among 
the  patricians  in  1297,  played  a  prominent  part  in 
all  Venetian  activities,  but  chiefly  in  war.  It  is  a 
member  of  this  family  —  Vittore  Capello,  general- 
issimo of  Venice  in  the  Turkish  campaign  of  1462 
and  1465,  who  is  represented  as  kneeling  before 

[  222  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

Sant'  Elena  in  the  beautiful  relief  above  the  fa- 
cade of  Sant'  Aponal.  Another  Capello  —  Vin- 
cenzo  —  in  the  succeeding  century  filled  five  times 
the  office  of  Admiral,  and  in  1541  erected  the  fa- 
cade of  Santa  Maria  Formosa.  Notoriety  of  a  dif- 
ferent kind  was  brought  to  the  family  by  Bianca, 
who  married  for  love  and  freedom,  and  was  cheated 
of  both,  but  who  died  Grand  Duchess  of  Tuscany. 
This  palace  of  the  Capello  family  at  San  Giovanni 
Laterano  was  worthy  of  their  fame.  The  superb 
side  wall  that  faces  us  in  Bellini's  picture  is  like  a 
tapestry  in  diamonds  of  dusky  crimson  and  gold. 
It  is  bordered  by  a  design  of  gold  below  the  bands 
of  colour,  which  are  most  effectively  placed  imme- 
diately under  the  projecting  roof.  A  beautiful  de- 
sign in  red  and  green,  like  rich  embroidery,  forms 
a  kind  of  flag,  enclosing  the  Capello  symbols  on  a 
shield  painted  in  different  shades  of  blue.  Every- 
thing that  conventional  ornament  could  do  to 
beautify  the  house  has  been  done.  Ornamental  bor- 
ders and  squares  are  set  among  the  bricks,  and  the 
smooth  marble  facings  of  the  ogival  windows  are 
inlaid  with  coloured  discs  and  knobs.  The  lower 
square  house  at  the  end  of  the  fondamenta,  divided 
from  the  Capello  palace  by  the  rio,  has  the  same 
beauties  of  ornamental  band  and  stripes  of  alternat- 
ing colours  beneath  the  roof.  The  single  window 

[  223  ] 


VENICE 

in  the  wall  that  faces  us  is  magnificent,  grated  and 
enclosed  by  gilt  rope-work ;  the  capitals  of  its  pil- 
lars and  its  ogival  arch  are  richly  gilded,  and  in 
the  surface  of  the  stone  above  are  set  discs  of  por- 
phyry with  centre  and  rim  of  gold.  Over  the  mas- 
sive wooden  entrance  door  is  a  painted  frieze  of 
green  leaves,  and  discs  with  Byzantine  birds  are  in- 
serted in  the  wall  above.  A  grand  surface  of  wall 
is  still  left  for  the  fresco  painter,  and  Tintoretto 
was  yet  to  come.  Perhaps  the  most  notable  feature 
in  this  lower  house  is  the  carving  of  its  chim- 
neys ;  each  has  an  individual  form.  The  fonda- 
menta  in  the  picture  is  thronged  with  citizens,  and 
the  conspicuous  row  of  stalwart  ladies,  who  kneel 
on  its  extreme  edge  above  the  water,  tradition  calls 
Catterina  Cornaro  and  her  train.  Certainly  this 
representation  of  the  Queen  of  Cyprus  and  her 
train  is  different  from  that  which  Bembo  has  given 
us  in  his  delightful  letters  to  Lucrezia  Borgia  from 
Asolo.  Catherine,  it  is  true,  was  no  longer  a  girl 
when  she  went  to  her  captivity  at  Asolo ;  but 
there  is  a  lightness  and  freedom  in  Bembo's  pic- 
ture of  the  party  who  told  tales  of  love  and 
philosophy  and  idled  among  the  gardens,  which 
leaves  us  unprepared  for  the  solidity  and  uncomeli- 
ness  of  this  uniform  row  of  figures.  We  know 
little  of  this  Queen  of  Cyprus,  but  we  expect  more 

[  224  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

grace  of  her  than  is  possible  to  these  matrons. 
They  have  studied  so  little  how  to  please  in  the 
wearing  of  their  sumptuous  robes,  that  despite  their 
jewels  they  produce  an  effect  of  almost  conventual 
dulness.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more 
magnificent  than  the  dresses  of  these  ladies  ;  they 
are  literally  covered  with  jewels.  Excessively  vir- 
tuous they  may  be,  but  they  are  also  excessively 
lavish  ;  they  might  well  give  ground  for  the  legis- 
lation as  to  women's  dress  quoted  by  Sanudo  ;  but 
they  have  not  taught  their  jewels  to  shine.  The 
matron  who  heads  the  row  is  robed  in  dark  vel- 
vet :  her  sleeves  and  the  front  of  her  bodice  are  of 
gold,  slashed  with  white  and  trimmed  with  pearls. 
An  edging  of  solid  gold,  studded  with  jewels, 
passes  from  her  shoulders  to  her  waist ;  rich  lace 
completes  the  decoration  of  her  bodice.  Strings  of 
pearls  cross  on  her  breast,  and  a  thickly  turned  gold 
cord  is  round  her  neck  and  hangs  in  front.  She 
wears  a  gold  coronet  set  with  gems,  and  beneath 
it  a  broad  ornamental  band.  A  transparent  veil 
falls  down  her  back,  and  is  draped  about  her  fore- 
head and  neck,  covering  her  long  ear-rings.  A 
jewelled  cross  hangs  on  her  breast,  and  a  chain 
round  her  waist.  Rings  are  the  only  possible 
splendour  she  and  her  ladies  are  without.  The 
Venetian  ladies  and  gentlemen  standing  behind  this 

«5  [  225   ] 


VENICE 

Queen  of  Cyprus  and  her  train  are  hardly  less 
sumptuous  than  they,  but  their  robes  are  less  rigid 
and  uniform,  and  very  much  more  gracefully  worn. 
The  men  are  dressed  in  a  splendour  of  brocade  and 
cloth  of  gold  that  gives  out  a  rich  and  sober  glow. 
We  may  well  feel  the  inadequacy  of  words  as 
we  attempt  to  revive  this  wonderful  painting. 
Bellini  faithfully  recorded  Venice,  but  we  cannot 
so  faithfully  record  Bellini.  We  can  only  hope  to 
call  attention  to  the  detail  of  what  is  undoubtedly 
one  of  the  most  valuable  portraits  of  the  Venice  of 
the  first  Renaissance  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  her 
citizens.  When  we  have  paused  long  enough  on 
the  site  of  the  picture  and  go  down  the  Rio  San 
Giovanni  Laterano,  immediately  in  front  of  the 
Capello  Palace,  the  high  water  again  denies  us 
passage ;  but  it  gives  more  than  it  withholds  in 
compelling  us  to  return  to  our  former  junction 
with  the  Rio  Pestrin  and  to  pass  out  among  the 
coal  barges  making  the  wider  circuit  of  the  lagoon. 
It  is  a  wonderful  moment  when  we  come  suddenly 
from  the  narrow  water  into  the  wide  expanse  of 
the  lagoon ;  and  on  this  December  morning  a 
marvellous  vision  awaits  us.  The  long  brown  line 
of  Sant'  Erasmo  lies  like  a  dark  cloud  on  the 
water ;  Burano,  San  Francesco  and  Torcello  are 
isolated  in  a  strange  translucency  of  mist ;  whilst 

[  226  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

from  the  low  tones  of  the  water  one  red  sail  rises 
like  a  column  of  flame.  Above  Murano  the  smoke 
coils  languidly;  the  cypresses  over  the  cemetery 
wall  stand  out  in  startling  blackness.  A  flock  of 
gulls  incessantly  flickers  and  glitters  on  the  surface 
of  lucent  aquamarine  that  stretches  away  to  the 
shore  where  the  mountains  lie  like  purple  shadows 
crowned  with  a  radiancy  of  snow.  The  sunlight 
of  the  lagoon  in  this  wintry  clearness  seems  other 
than  that  which  falls  on  the  waterways  of  the  city  ; 
this  outer  robe  of  Venice  to-day  is  of  so  immate- 
rial a  texture  that  we  feel  the  material  city  slipping 
from  our  grasp.  We  turn  back  into  it,  but  by  a 
way  that  can  feed  the  visionary  sense,  by  the  Rio 
dei  Mendicanti.  It  might  seem,  indeed,  that  all 
vision  would  die  in  the  dreary,  plastered  uniform- 
ity of  the  building  that  stretches  along  the  fonda- 
menta  on  our  left.  This  building  was  formerly 
the  Scuola  di  San  Marco ;  but  the  superb  fa£ade 
erected  by  the  Confraternity  on  the  Campo  di  SS. 
Giovanni  e  Paolo  has  little  in  common  with  these 
white-washed  walls  and  dreary  sunless  corridors. 
For  this  most  famous  School  is  now  the  Hospital 
of  the  Mendicanti,  and  it  is  as  a  visitor  to  the  wards 
that  we  are  admitted.  Yet  amidst  these  chill 
cloisters  and  corridors  is  kept  one  of  the  most  lu- 
minous and  visionary  treasures  of  Venice  —  Tinto- 

[  227  ] 


VENICE 

retto's  Procession  of  St.  Ursula  and  The  Virgins.  It 
is  the  more  precious  as  being,  with  Bacchus  and 
Ariadne  and  The  Paradise,  almost  the  only  work 
of  Tintoretto  that  we  can  make  sure  of  fully  see- 
ing. There  is  abundant  light  in  the  cold,  grey 
church  to  illumine  a  picture  which  is  in  itself  a 
song  of  light  in  the  daybreak. 

This  stream  of  wonderful  maidens  moves  all  to 
one  rhythm,  winding  with  sweeping  trains  down 
out  of  the  misty  dawn  to  end  and  centre  in  the 
glorious  figure  of  St.  Ursula  waiting  the  bishop's 
consecration  of  her  mission.  She  is  so  entran- 
cingly  radiant  that  the  young  cross-bearing  bishop 
who  stands  beside  her  seems,  as  he  gazes,  to  be  il- 
lumined by  her  fire  and  joy.  The  ships  in  which 
the  company  is  to  embark  lie  like  phantoms  on 
the  misty  sea-line,  and  the  long  lights  of  dawn  are 
above  the  water — pale  rose  and  gold  and  purple — 
while  the  curtain  of  night  is  slowly  withdrawn, 
leaving  spaces  of  darker  blue  and  glowing  cloud. 
The  early  morning  mists  still  hang  about  the 
shadowy  hulks  of  the  huge  vessels  and  the  figures 
near  the  shore,  making  as  it  were  two  spheres  of 
action.  The  grassy  slope  down  which  the  travel- 
lers come,  seems  in  its  undulations  to  yield  itself 
to  their  motion,  to  reflect  and  echo  it,  and  is  lumi- 
nous as  all  the  figures  are.  The  faint  rainbow 

[  228  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

raiments  of  those  distant  companies  that  sweep  for- 
ward nearer  to  the  shore  are  like  wings  lit  from 
the  dawn  and  half-folded,  while  the  foremost 
ranks  of  the  procession  are  in  the  full  golden  light 
of  day.  Note  with  what  daring  Tintoretto  has 
placed  the  strong  rose-robed  angel  with  the  palms 
of  martyrdom  across  the  picture  directly  overhead. 
Her  figure  cuts  across  the  phantom  ships;  one  arm 
hides  part  of  the  procession ;  yet  far  from  obscuring 
or  diverting  from  the  central  theme,  she  leads  the 
eye  more  directly  to  St.  Ursula.  There  are  no 
spectators  of  this  morning  procession,  unless  it  be 
the  marvellous  group  on  the  left.  The  central 
figure  is  that  of  a  woman,  meditative,  gathered 
into  herself;  she  scarcely  seems  to  belong  to  the 
procession ;  she  is  dreaming  apart  with  downbent 
face,  and  is  very  close  in  feeling  to  Carpaccio's 
sleeping  St.  Ursula.  Beside  her  is  a  radiant  youth, 
his  face  one  of  Giorgione's  faces,  in  a  helm  shaped 
like  a  shell  and  set  with  pearls.  There  are  many 
types  of  Venetian  ladies  in  the  procession,  such  as 
were  idealised  by  one  and  another  of  the  painters ; 
all  are  here,  in  marvellous  richness  of  raiment  and 
jewelled  headgear.  We  do  not  question  whether 
they  are  fitly  robed  for  a  great  journey  ;  we  only 
share  in  their  joy.  The  wine  of  dawn  seems  to 
have  entered  into  them,  and  to  sing  in  every  mo- 

[  229  ] 


VENICE 

tion,  every  colour  of  the  superb  lyric  —  the  intoxi- 
cation of  embarking  on  a  mystic  voyage  in  the 
pale  radiance  of  dawn. 

We  pass  out  again  through  the  long  corridors 
under  the  great  sculptured  portal.  On  our  left  is 
the  church  of  SS.  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  a  storehouse 
of  Renaissance  art,  and  before  us  the  friend  of 
whom  we  never  grow  weary  —  Colleoni  astride 
of  his  war-horse  in  the  centre  of  the  square.  This 
paid  servant,  this  adopted  son  of  Venice,  is  not  on 
the  Piazza  where  it  was  his  wish  to  be;  but  he 
stands  even  more  fitly  here  upon  this  small  campo 
beside  the  canal.  Anywhere  he  would  be  monarch; 
but  we  are  admitted  here  into  his  private  presence- 
chamber,  while  the  great  stirring  Piazza  would 
seem  but  the  crowded  outer  court.  If,  before 
leaving  the  campo,  we  make  a  short  journey  on 
foot  along  the  Salizzada  which  passes  on  the  south 
of  SS.  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  we  may  find  a  treasure 
buried  in  dirt  and  neglect.  None  would  guess  its 
presence;  but  those  who  care  for  unfrequented 
paths  may  venture  under  the  unattractive  sotto- 
portico  which  leads  to  the  outer  staircase  of  a  once 
beautiful  Renaissance  palace.  It  is  given  over  to 
the  poor,  but  a  sculptured  doorway  still  surmounts 
the  stair;  its  chief  beauty  however  is  a  series  of  deli- 
cately sculptured  arches  in  the  brickwork  below,  and 

[  230  ] 


PALAZZO   SAN  U DO. 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

a  fine  well-head  half  imprisoned  by  the  chimney 
of  a  neighbouring  bakery.  The  wall  of  the  bakery 
is  so  near  the  staircase  of  the  palace  that  we  can 
get  no  complete  conception  of  the  arches,  and  the 
dirt  and  ill  odours  of  this  neglected  corner  are  likely 
to  daunt  all  but  the  most  enthusiastic  seekers  after 
treasure.  Yet  these  fragments,  in  elegance  and 
beauty  of  design,  may  rank  with  the  worthiest  re- 
mains of  the  Venetian  Renaissance. 

Returning  to  Colleoni's  square,  we  again  em- 
bark and  continue  our  way  down  the  Rio  dei 
Mendicanti,  past  courtyards  flooded  by  still  rising 
water,  and  turn  soon  to  the  right,  into  the  Rio 
Santa  Marina  —  a  picturesque  canal,  ever  varying 
in  width  and  angle.  At  the  corner  of  the  Palazzo 
Pisano  we  are  confronted  again  by  the  problem 
of  the  high  water.  If  we  would  include  in  our  tour 
the  Palazzo  Sanudo,  with  its  riches  of  many  ages, 
Byzantine,  early  Gothic  and  Ogival,  its  two  court- 
yards, its  beautiful  garden  on  the  fondamenta  and 
its  dolphin-shaped  knocker,  we  must  turn  to  the 
right  along  the  Rio  delle  Erbe.  But  it  is  useless 
to  hope  that  this  morning  any  gondola  will  be  able 
to  pass  under  its  low  bridges,  and  in  consequence 
we  must  continue  our  way  to  the  church  of  the 
Miracoli,  by  skirting  the  other  side  of  the  lozenge- 
shaped  island  on  which  it  stands.  We  soon  turn 

[  233  ] 


VENICE 

at  right  angles  into  the  Rio  dei  Miracoli,  and  in  a 
few  moments  we  see  the  sun  shining  on  the  cupola 
of  the  church,  gilding  the  marbles  of  the  circular 
east  tower  and  lighting  the  traceries  of  serpentine 
and  porphyry  and  cipollino  on  the  west  front.  It 
is  a  joyous  and  radiant  aspect,  this  of  the  Miracoli, 
with  its  broad  spaces  of  Greek  marbles  and  its 
bands  of  Verona,  its  plaques  of  verd-antique  and 
porphyry,  its  sculptured  angels  and  grave  apostles. 
It  stands  in  quiet  beauty  on  the  brink  of  the  canal. 
From  its  little  campo  opens  the  beautiful  inner 
courtyard  of  the  Sanudo  Palace,  while  on  another 
side  it  is  bordered  by  the  spacious  and  noble  Corte 
delle  Muneghe,  formerly  known  as  the  Corte  Ca 
Amadi,  from  the  family  whose  arms  are  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  brickwork.  Close  to  the  well  in  this 
court  stood  originally  the  image  of  the  Madonna, 
thanks  to  whose  miracles  we  now  possess  this  most 
beautiful  church  built  in  her  honour.  The  chron- 
icles relate  that  a  certain  Francesco  Amadi,  an  in- 
habitant of  Santa  Marina,  had  piously  set  up  an 
image  of  the  Virgin  close  by  his  house.  The 
fame  of  this  image  as  a  worker  of  wonders  grew 
so  great  that  it  was  transferred  by  Angelo  Amadi, 
in  1480,  to  the  Corte  di  Ca  Amadi,  and  set  up 
there  for  popular  veneration.  In  his  Venetian 
Annals  for  1480,  Malipiero  thus  briefly  relates  the 

[  234  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

occurrence :  "  This  year  began  the  cult  of  the 
Madonna  of  Miracles  which  was  at  the  door  of 
Corte  Nuova,  opposite  the  door  of  the  Amai  in 
the  narrow  calle,  and  because  of  the  crowd  of 
people  it  became  necessary  to  move  the  image, 
and  carry  it  to  the  courtyard  of  Ca  Amai,  and  im- 
mense offerings  have  been  made  of  wax,  statues, 
money  and  silver,  insomuch  that  it  has  reached 
four  hundred  ducats  in  one  month.  And  in  pro- 
cess of  time  it  amounted  to  three  thousand  ducats 
of  alms,  and  with  them  we  bought  Corte  Nova 
from  the  houses  of  the  Bembo,  Querini  and  Baroci, 
and  there  was  built  a  most  beautiful  temple  and 
convent,  into  which  we  put  the  nuns  of  Santa 
Chiara  of  Murano."  The  foundation-stone  was 
laid  on  February  25,  1481,  when  the  image  was 
moved  with  great  pomp  from  the  court  to  the 
little  wooden  shelter  on  the  site  chosen  for  the 
church.  An  interesting  account  of  the  move  is 
contained  in  the  Memorie  of  Angelo  Amadi.  It 
affords  a  vivid  verbal  picture  of  religious  festivals 
in  Venice  at  the  time  they  were  rinding  their  most 
splendid  expression  on  canvas.  "  On  the  day  of 
the  twenty-fifth  of  February,"  begins  Amadi,  "  in 
the  name  of  Messer  Jesus  Christ  and  of  the  glori- 
ous Virgin  Mary,  we  removed  the  image  from  our 
house  to  transfer  it  to  the  hut  or  house  of  wood 

[  235  ] 


VENICE 

where  the  chapel  or  church  is  to  be  made  ;  at 
which  removal  were  present  all  the  Schools  or 
Fraternities,  the  Battudi,  that  is,  the  School  of 
Madonna  Santa  Maria  della  Misericordia,  to  which 
I  belong,  and  the  School  of  the  Carita,  and  of  San 
Marco,  and  that  lately  founded  of  San  Rocco, 
whose  brothers  go  about  in  sackcloth,  beating 
themselves  continually  with  scourges  and  iron 
chains."  All  the  Procurators  of  San  Marco,  he 
says,  were  present,  with  countless  cavaliers  and 
doctors  and  a  great  part  of  the  Signoria,  the 
Patriarch  in  his  pontificals,  and  a  host  of  vicars 
and  canons  and  other  clerics,  all  richly  and  splen- 
didly clothed.  The  Amadi  insisted  on  themselves 
carrying  the  portable  stand  that  had  been  made 
for  the  image,  covered  with  cloth  of  gold,  cre- 
mosine  and  cloth  of  silver,  and  adorned  with  silver 
candelabra  and  oriental  censers.  "  Nor  would  we 
allow  any  other  to  carry  it,  that  we  might  demon- 
strate publicly  that  it  belonged  to  us  and  had  been 
made  by  our  ancestor."  Four  citizens  accom- 
panied the  image-bearers,  carrying  poles  on  which 
to  support  the  stage  as  it  mounted  bridges  or 
stopped  in  the  streets.  It  was  followed  by  the 
dignitaries  already  enumerated  and  almost  the 
whole  Venetian  populace.  The  procession  left 

the  house  of  the  Amadi  to  the  sound  of  trumpet 

[236] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

and  pipe ;  it  made  a  circuit  of  the  bridges,  streets 
and  squares  of  the  city  as  far  as  Santa  Maria  For- 
mosa, halting  in  the  parish  church  of  the  Amadi 
for  many  lauds  to  be  sung.  "  And  along  all  the 
calli  and  in  the  squares  of  the  churches  all  the 
people  kneeling  on  the  ground  prayed  devoutly 
with  tears  and  hands  joined  on  their  breasts,  call- 
ing aloud  and  raising  a  great  outcry."  In  this 
manner  the  procession  returned  to  the  shelter,  and 
the  foundation-stone  was  laid  by  the  Patriarch 
amid  the  chanting  of  lauds.  After  a  final  Te  Deum 
the  image  was  left  to  the  devotions  of  the  people 
who,  till  night  fell,  continued  to  pour  out  their 
offerings  for  the  building.  There  is  something 
stirring  in  this  ceremony  with  its  popular  outcry 
and  petitions  for  mercy.  It  reminds  us  of  that 
strong  element  of  piety  which  in  Venice  went  side 
by  side  with  its  strong  commercial  instincts. 

The  church  of  the  Miracoli  seems  to  belong 
peculiarly  to  Venice  in  the  light  of  these  stories 
of  its  birth.  It  is  itself  one  of  the  miracles,  this 
little  Roman  temple ;  with  its  quadrangular-domed 
choir,  raised  high  above  the  nave,  its  marble 
ambones,  its  dark  painted  roof,  and  walls  lined 
with  marbles,  it  impresses  us  with  a  sense  of  sub- 
limity. All  here  is  perfectly  proportioned  and 
decorated  with  simple  and  absolute  fitness.  It  is 

[  237  ] 


VENICE 

impossible  to  mount  the  flight  of  marble  steps 
leading  from  nave  to  choir,  past  the  wonderful 
little  figures  of  St.  Clare  and  St.  Francis  with  his 
profound  contemplative  smile,  past  the  Annuncia- 
tion Angel  and  the  Virgin  draped  like  a  Roman 
matron,  into  the  choir  where  the  great  cross  of 
porphyry  and  serpentine  hangs  in  the  apse,  without 
feeling  that  we  are  mounting  to  sacrifice  in  a 
temple  full  of  the  Deity.  But  what  part  has 
that  marvellous  little  company  of  sea  youths  and 
maidens  in  the  tale  of  the  Passion  ?  They  are  the 
offspring  of  some  delicate  fantasy  careless  of  all 
save  itself,  yet  they  seem  to  need  no  other  passport 
than  beauty  to  their  place  in  the  temple.  Work 
of  the  same  imaginative  quality  is  to  be  seen  on 
a  pillar  in  the  nave  :  not  here  a  dream  of  mermaids 
with  delicate  breasts  and  arms  and  glittering  tails, 
but  a  purely  naturalistic  subject.  The  artist  has 
conspired  with  the  stone  to  sing  his  delight  in  the 
life  of  the  fields,  and  he  has  achieved  his  purpose 
so  that  the  very  spirit  of  the  wild  creatures  lives 
again.  A  lizard  with  smooth  scales  and  lithe, 
restless  tail,  ears  of  corn,  a  serpent  holding  a  bird 
by  its  look  as  it  rears  itself  for  a  spring,  birds  fight- 
ing and  birds  preening  their  breasts,  —  all  these 
delicate  beings,  that  move  amid  a  design  of  admir- 
able grace,  are  a  field  pilgrim's  scrip  laid  open  for 

[  238  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

all  who  will  read.  These  old  artists  were  not 
afraid.  To  them  all  things  of  nature  appeared 
symbols  worthy  to  lay  on  the  altar.  And  it  is 
because  of  this  permeating  imaginative  vision  that 
the  Church  of  the  Miracoli  is  one  of  the  jewels 
of  Venice,  instinct  with  life,  from  the  grave  mys- 
tery of  its  marble-lined  walls,  slab  alternating 
with  slab,  Carrara  cream  and  white,  paonazetto, 
marmo  greco,  marbles  of  Verona  red  and  almond, 
to  lizard  and  serpent,  siren  and  infant,  from  the 
dusky  gold  and  colour  of  the  ceiling  to  the  eloquent 
figures  that  stand  in  constant  ministration  on  the 
ambones. 

Santa  Maria  dei  Miracoli  might  well  mark  the 
limit  of  our  tour ;  but  if  we  go  a  short  distance 
further  into  the  Rio  San  Canciano  we  shall  come 
on  three  examples  of  the  earlier  domestic  architec- 
ture of  Venice,  which  we  shall  do  well  not  to 
miss.  The  first  is  a  house  by  the  Ponte  Widmann, 
dating  from  the  ninth  century.  It  is  exceedingly 
picturesque,  with  its  long,  low  portico,  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  Byzantine  ornaments  of  most  varied  de- 
vice on  the  walls  —  weird  lions  and  birds  and 
oriental  beasts.  The  capitals  of  the  window  col- 
umns also  are  Byzantine,  though  the  balconies  are 
Renaissance.  We  can  also  distinguish,  though  it 
is  immured,  the  ancient  solario,  or  sun-terrace, 

[  239  ] 


which,  in  this  house  of  old  Venice,  was  evidently 
of  considerable  beauty  and  extent.  Passing  under 
another  bridge  after  the  Ponte  Widmann,  we  come 
to  the  Ponte  Pasqualigo,  and  landing  at  the  calle 
on  the  left,  we  have  on  the  right  of  us,  only  a  few 
steps  down,  one  of  the  oldest  houses  in  Venice.  So 
well  cared  for  is  it  by  its  present  owners  that  we 
seem  not  to  be  examining  a  relic,  but  to  move  in  a 
living  page  of  the  past.  On  the  morning  we  saw 
it,  the  sun  was  streaming  into  the  court  and  falling 
on  the  Signora,  who,  in  scarlet  shawl,  and  with  a 
brilliant  kerchief  round  her  head,  was  dozing  in 
the  sun.  She  rose  and  gave  us  a  cordial  welcome, 
and  we  climbed  the  outer  stair,  under  an  immense 
projecting  roof,  into  the  garden  hanging  above  the 
court,  full  of  sunshine  and  flowers ;  higher  still,  on 
the  altana,  was  a  bright  line  of  clothing  hung  out 
to  dry.  The  structure  of  the  ancient  roof  over- 
hanging the  stair  is  very  remarkable,  with  its  secon- 
dary beams  that  jut  horizontally  under  a  long 
cross-beam  running  the  whole  length  of  the  gallery. 
The  rooms,  which  open  out  of  one  another  from 
the  terrace,  are  rich  also  in  beams,  though  now 
for  the  most  part  covered  with  a  foolish  uniform- 
ity of  ceiling.  The  floor  of  the  reception  room 
is,  as  usual,  paved  with  small  variegated  stones, 
but  it  is  remarkable  for  occasional  little  islands  of 

[  240  ] 


A    SIDE   CANAL. 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

mosaic,  one  of  which,  a  tiny  square  of  deep  blue 
and  gold  set  diamond-wise,  is  a  veritable  gem  of 
colour.  Worthy  to  rank  with  this  hospitable,  ample 
house  of  ancient  Venice,  is  a  courtyard  opening 
on  the  water,  into  which  we  pass  immediately  from 
the  Ponte  Pasqualigo.  The  wooden  barbicans  of 
the  projecting  roof  adjoining  the  portico  rest  on 
pillars  of  fine  earliest  Gothic,  grave  and  strong  and 
simple  in  their  build.  The  sense  that  they  are  in- 
dividuals bearing  the  burden  of  the  beams  is  in- 
creased by  the  fact  that  it  is  not  geometrically 
adjusted  to  their  shoulders.  It  rests  there  because 
they  are  willing ;  there  is  an  understanding,  a 
combinazione  between  beam  and  pillar,  but  the  two 
were  not  mechanically  made  to  fit. 

Returning  to  the  Rio  dei  Miracoli  we  leave  the 
church  on  our  left,  and  crossing  the  Rio  Santa 
Marina  and  the  Rio  San  Giovanni  Grisostomo,  we 
pass  directly  into  the  Rio  del  Teatro,  leaving  the 
water-entrance  to  Marco-Polo's  palace  on  our 
right.  This  corner  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  canals  of  Venice.  It  is  rich  in  palaces  and 
fragments  of  ancient  ornament,  and  full  of  strange 
interplay  of  lights  from  the  many  tortuous  ways  that 
converge  here.  There  is  a  constant  fascination  in 
the  broad  sweep  of  water  at  the  crossways,  in  the 
problems  of  traffic,  in  the  warning  cries  that  herald 

[  243  ] 


VENICE 

boat  or  barge  passing  under  the  many  bridges. 
There  is  perhaps  no  spot  in  Venice  so  full  of  an- 
cient mystery,  of  the  gloom,  the  light,  the  sound 
and  stillness  of  her  waterways.  A  little  further  on 
we  pass  into  the  Rio  della  Fava,  full  also  of  de- 
lightful and  unexpected  corners  ;  and  looking  back 
from  the  Ponte  di  San'  Antonio  we  see  the  site  of 
Mansueti's  picture  commemorating  another  miracle 
of  the  Holy  Cross  ;  or  rather  we  see  one  corner  of 
the  picture ;  for  Mansueti  has  cut  away  the  whole 
length  of  a  calle  and  all  the  houses  between  this 
bridge  of  San'  Antonio  and  the  Campo  di  San  Lio, 
so  that  in  his  painting,  for  obvious  artistic  reasons, 
the  waters  of  the  canal  flow  directly  in  front  of  the 
campo,  which  he  has  narrowed  to  little  more  than 
a  fondamenta.  In  a  sketch  for  this  picture  now  in 
the  Uffizi  at  Florence,  Mansueti  has  more  faithfully 
transcribed  the  actual  surroundings  of  the  Campo 
di  San  Lio.  His  picture  illustrates  a  miracle  of 
the  Cross  that  would  seem  to  offer  small  scope  for 
artistic  treatment.  A  member  of  the  Confraternity 
of  San  Giovanni  Evangelista,  on  being  invited  by 
another  Brother  to  attend  the  Cross  in  procession, 
impiously  replied,  "  I  will  neither  accompany  it, 
nor  do  I  care  whether  it  accompanies  me."  Within 
a  short  while,  continues  Flamino  Corner,  the  per- 
verse man  died  and  the  School  assembled  for  his 

[  244  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

burial ;  but  when  the  procession  reached  the  Ponte 
di  San  Lio,  the  parish  of  the  dead  man,  the  Holy 
Cross  became  so  heavy  that  no  force  could  avail  to 
move  it.  While  all  stood  appalled  and  dismayed 
by  such  an  occurrence,  the  friend  of  the  dead  man 
recalled  the  impious  words  he  had  spoken,  and 
made  known  the  reason  of  the  refusal  of  the  Cross. 
It  was  removed  from  the  procession,  and,  the  chron- 
icler informs  us,  withheld  henceforth  from  any 
but  public  solemnities.  In  Mansueti's  composition 
a  number  of  Brothers  are  gathered  on  the  bridge 
attempting  to  drag  the  Cross,  and  the  clergy  of 
San  Lio  and  a  group  of  citizens  are  waiting  on  the 
campo  to  receive  it.  There  is  much  quaintness  in 
the  rendering  of  this  rather  humorous  incident, 
and  the  picture  is  full  of  rich  and  homely  detail,  in 
the  houses  and  in  the  doings  of  their  inhabitants, 
the  chase  of  a  cat,  the  hanging  of  a  clothes  line,  the 
stacking  of  the  pliant  rods  on  which  the  clothes 
are  hung.  The  windows,  with  closed  or  open 
gratings,  are  thronged  with  onlookers,  chiefly  splen- 
did ladies.  In  Bellini,  the  windows  are  unpeopled, 
but  here  there  is  scarcely  one  uncarpeted,  and  with- 
out its  contingent  of  festive  heads  and  shoulders ; 
whilst  in  one  of  the  windows,  in  the  house  we 
can  still  identify,  a  fascinating  infant  prances  against 
the  grating  and  pokes  a  fist  through  the  bars.  The 

[  245  ] 


VENICE 

bridge  in  the  picture  is  obviously  too  low  for  any 
gondola  to  pass  under  it ;  it  is  merely  a  temporary 
private  way  thrown  across  the  rio,  which  it  is  easy 
to  believe  that  Mansueti  has  substituted  in  order 
that  we  may  see  above  it  the  procession  winding 
out  of  the  Rio  del  Piombo.  As  we  look  back 
from  the  Ponte  San'  Antonio  we  may  get,  in  spite 
of  Mansueti's  changes,  a  distinct  impression  of  his 
scene  ;  the  sun,  shining  through  the  small  circular 
ogival  window  in  the  house  that  still  bounds  our 
horizon,  lights  up  a  gay  interior  of  green  walls 
draped  in  crimson  and  gold  with  singular  richness 
of  effect. 

The  name  of  the  Rio  della  Fava,  the  Canal 
of  the  Bean,  boasts  a  traditional  derivation  that 
throws  a  curious  light  on  Venetian  pieties.  It 
appears  that  in  1480,  the  same  year  in  which  was 
initiated  the  cult  of  the  Madonna  dei  Miracoli  at 
the  Ca  Amadi,  another  wonder-working  image, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  same  family,  was 
thought  worthy  of  a  chapel  in  San  Lio.  This 
chapel  was  named  Santa  Maria  della  Consolazione, 
or  della  Fava,  from  its  proximity  to  the  Ponte 
della  Fava.  "  The  ecclesiastical  writers,"  says 
Tassini,  "  recount  that  the  bridge  was  so  named 
because  a  man  living  by  it,  who  had  hidden  some 
contraband  salt  under  some  sacks  of  beans,  a  vege- 

[  246  ] 


THE   GONDOLIERS'  SHRINE. 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

table  he  dealt  in,  when  warned  that  the  police 
were  approaching  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the 
said  miraculous  image  for  succour  and  obtained 
this  favour  —  that  the  Justices,  despite  their  search, 
found  nothing  in  the  house  but  simple  beans." 
This  naive  faith  in  the  willingness  of  the  Madonna 
to  meet  all  contingencies  survives  among  the  hum- 
bler citizens  of  Venice  to-day.  A  proof  is  pro- 
vided by  the  personal  experience  of  a  friend  who 
had  bespoken  overnight  a  gondola  for  the  station 
in  the  dark  early  hours  of  the  next  morning. 
The  gondolier  duly  arrived  and  set  out  with  his 
fare  from  San  Marco.  But  they  had  gone  no  fur- 
ther than  the  church  of  the  Salute  when  his  lamp 
gave  out  and  he  halted  and  asked  leave  to  replenish 
it.  No  place  for  procuring  oil  was  apparent,  but 
the  gondolier  knew  one.  He  went  to  the  shrine 
of  the  Madonna  and  addressed  the  figure  thus, 
"  Blessed  Madonna,  thou  thinkest  harm  of  no  man 
and  thou  wouldst  not  that  harm  should  come  to 
any.  I  turn  to  thee  for  help  in  my  need.  The 
police  are  not  like  thee.  They  will  have  no  pity 
in  their  fine  if  they  see  me  at  the  station  with  my 
lamp  unlit.  I  beg  thy  lamp  for  this  little  while.'* 
And,  as  there  was  no  sign  of  refusal,  the  Ma- 
donna's lamp  was  taken  to  the  station  and  returned 
on  the  homeward  journey. 

[  249  1 


VENICE 

Continuing  our  way  down  the  Rio  della  Fava 
we  pass  almost  immediately,  on  the  left,  the 
Palazzo  Gussoni,  a  palace  the  great  beauty  of 
which  cannot  be  overlooked.  It  is  a  building 
of  the  first  Renaissance  combining  extreme  rich- 
ness of  detail  with  simplicity  of  general  effect. 
The  basement  is  beautifully  and  variously  sculp- 
tured and  surmounted  by  a  band  of  Verona  marble  ; 
above  it  rises  a  design  of  leaves  and  ears  of  corn 
growing  and  spreading  like  a  plant,  and  full  of 
graceful  and  delicate  fancy.  The  unique  feature 
of  the  palace  is  the  richly  sculptured  stone  barba- 
can  that  supports  the  projecting  portion  of  the 
upper  storey  overhanging  the  Calle  della  Fava. 
There  is  in  Venice  an  abundance  of  fine  wooden 
barbacans,  but  this  is  the  only  example  we  remem- 
ber of  the  sumptuous  casing  in  stone. 

A  little  further  and  we  pass  below  a  palace 
of  the  Transition,  from  whose  graceful  balcony 
keep  watch  a  row  of  sculptured  lions  in  half-relief. 
As  we  come  into  the  Rio  della  Guerra,  the  mid- 
day light  plays  reflectively  on  the  water,  striking 
out  of  it  a  thousand  fitful  diamonds,  and  the  now 
ebbing  tide  washes  with  a  soft  caressing  sound 
against  the  houses.  At  the  juncture  of  the  Rio 
della  Guerra  with  the  Rio  del  Palazzo  is  the  Casa 
dell'  Angelo  so  named  from  the  beautiful  sculp- 

[  250  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

tured  angel  on  the  wall  that  faces  us.  It  stands 
erect,  with  wings  spread,  holding  in  the  left  hand 
a  globe  signed  with  the  Cross,  which  it  seems  in 
the  act  of  blessing.  The  lower  part  of  its  body 
is  covered  with  two  shields  bearing,  according  to 
Tassini,  the  arms  of  the  Narni  family.  It  is 
sheltered  by  a  pent-roof,  supported  on  graceful 
pillars,  most  delicately  and  nobly  worked.  In  the 
lunette  above  the  angel,  in  the  immediate  shadow 
of  the  roof,  is  discernible  a  painting  of  the  Ma- 
donna and  Child  between  two  kneeling  angels, 
which  still  retain  traces  of  soft  and  beautiful  col- 
ouring. But  the  most  precious  possessions  of  this 
palace  front  are  the  remnants  of  fresco  under  the 
broad  projecting  roof  at  the  further  end  of  the 
building.  The  beautiful  figure  of  a  woman,  with 
head  resting  on  her  hand  and  braided  golden  hair, 
is  still  intact.  There  is  another  fine  figure  between 
the  windows,  and  there  are  many  fading  fragments 
in  the  plaster  below.  Tradition  unanimously  at- 
tributes these  frescoes  to  Tintoretto,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  the  lovely  woman  could  have 
come  from  any  other  hand. 

The  Ponte  Canonica,  which  adjoins  our  first 
Capello  Palace,  now  allows  us  an  easy  passage,  and 
we  can  take  our  way  on  the  ebbing  tide  down  the 
Rio  del  Palazzo.  Below  the  sombre  weight  of 

[  251  ] 


VENICE 

the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  between  the  palace  and  the 
prison,  we  pass  again  into  the  aureole  of  Venice. 
Within  the  brilliant  bay  formed  by  the  Riva  degli 
Schiavoni  the  gulls  are  making  festa,  and  away 
towards  the  city  they  whirl  and  drift  like  shining 
snowflakes  in  the  radiance  of  the  Grand  Canal. 
As  we  pass  the  Piazzetta  to  land  at  the  Molo,  the 
golden  sword  of  Justice  gleams  superbly  luminous 
in  the  blue  above  San  Marco.  Venice  has  put  on 
her  glory. 


[  252  ] 


T 


Chapter  Jltne 

VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 
(PART   II) 

HE  centre  of  our  second  tour  is  an  ancient 
and  comparatively  unfrequented  region 
in  the  north  of  Venice  —  that  part  of 
Cannaregio  over  which  watches  the  Campanile  of 
the  Madonna  dell'  Orto,  with  its  crowning  image 
of  snowy  stone  and  four  solemn  apostles  looking 
out  over  city  and  lagoon.  The  beautiful  figure 
of  the  Madonna,  round  whose  feet,  between  the 
tiles  of  her  ruddy  cupola,  spring  little  plants  the 
birds  have  sown,  rises  day  after  day  triumphant 
out  of  the  duel  between  sun  and  mist,  a  pledge  of 
the  victory  of  light ;  and  through  all  vicissitudes 
of  weather  she  is  seen,  sometimes  in  dazzling  out- 
line upon  the  deep  blue,  or  against  a  canopy  of 
grey,  sometimes  herself  tempered  to  shadowy 
greyness  by  the  brilliance  of  the  cumuli  that  out- 
rival even  her  snowy  purity. 

We  will  enter  from  the  Grand  Canal  by  the 
Rio  San  Marcuola,  nearly  opposite  the  Correr 
Museum,  and  pass  below  the  Ponte  dell'  Anconetta 

[  253  ] 


VENICE 

on  the  Strada  Nuova,  or  more  properly  the  Corso 
Vittorio  Emanuele,  which  in  its  broad  and  ungra- 
cious uniformity  is  one  of  the  most  forbidding 
streets  in  Venice.  It  seems  at  first  to  have  no  re- 
serves into  which  by  a  little  tact  or  sympathy  we 
may  ingratiate  ourselves ;  yet  many  activities  gen- 
erally to  be  encountered  in  other  raiment  and 
under  other  auspices,  lurk  behind  its  mask.  On 
this  very  Rio  San  Marcuola  is  a  workshop  where 
antiquities  are  fabricated  for  the  show-rooms  of 
the  Grand  Canal.  We  see  them  here  in  their 
early  stages,  a  rude  stone  well-head  awaiting  an 
ancient  sculpture,  a  Renaissance  chimney-piece,  a 
Byzantine  lion  in  Verona  marble ;  and  the  forger 
is  no  villain  but  an  honest,  genial  workman  skilled 
to  do  better,  but  content  to  supply  what  he  is 
asked  for.  A  little  beyond  the  bridge  we  come 
on  one  of  the  oldest  squeri  or  boat-building  yards 
of  Venice.  Black  sprites  of  boys  pass  to  and  fro, 
plunging  their  torches  into  cauldrons  of  burning 
pitch,  to  draw  them  in  the  wake  of  flaming 
branches  along  the  upturned  sides  of  the  gondolas  ; 
and  men,  with  something  of  the  fire  and  of  the 
blackness  in  their  eyes  and  faces,  swink  like  the 
skilled  demons  in  Spenser's  cave  of  Mammon.  It 
is  outside,  on  the  squero,  that  this  coarser  work 
with  pitch  and  cauldron  goes  on ;  in  the  inner 

[  254  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

workshop  are  the  frames  of  gondolas  in  making, 
exquisite  skeletons  with  subtle  apportioning  of 
oak,  elm,  nut  and  larch,  and  long  unbroken  sides 
of  beech.  Opposite  the  squero,  on  our  right,  is 
the  ugly  new  brick  wall  of  Paolo  Sarpi's  convent. 
Above  it  may  be  seen  a  weed-grown  fragment  of 
the  ancient  building  with  its  relief  above  the  door. 
Boni  has  suggested  that  a  more  appropriate  me- 
morial to  Sarpi's  memory  than  the  erection  of  a 
bronze  statue  might  have  been  the  preservation  or 
renewal  in  its  original  beauty  of  the  old  convent 
with  which  he  was  so  closely  and  intimately 
connected. 

We  strike  almost  immediately  into  the  Rio 
della  Misericordia,  and  as  we  look  down  the  long 
vista  to  right  and  left  of  us,  under  the  low  bridges, 
we  begin  to  realise  the  peculiar  character  of  this 
district.  It  is  entirely  different  from  that  of  our 
first  tour ;  long  parallel  canals  run  from  east  to 
west,  cutting  the  land  into  narrow  strips  and  giv- 
ing the  strips  a  curious  effect  of  isolation.  These 
canals  are  bounded  on  the  west  by  the  lagoon,  and 
the  effect  of  sunset  light  flooding  the  long  water- 
ways is  strikingly  beautiful.  If  we  were  to  follow 
the  Rio  della  Misericordia  to  the  left,  we  should 
come  to  the  curious  wedge-shaped  island  of  the 
Ghetto  Nuovo  and  the  tall  deserted  houses  of  the 

[  255  ] 


VENICE 

Ghetto  Vecchio.  But  we  will  tend  only  slightly 
to  the  left,  and  passing  under  a  low  bridge  con- 
tinue our  former  course  into  the  Rio  della  Sensa. 
This  name  has  in  it  echoes  of  historic  festivals ;  it 
originated  in  the  fact  that  the  stalls  for  the  great 
Ascension  fete  on  the  Piazza  were  stored  in  the 
warehouses  that  stood  on  its  banks.  As  late  as  the 
last  celebration  of  this  famous  offshoot  of  the  Spo- 
salizio  festival,  in  the  year  1776,  fifty-seven  thou- 
sand ducats  were  spent  on  erecting  the  enclosure 
in  which  the  stalls  were  set  up.  The  Rio  della 
Sensa  has  many  links  with  the  past.  Above  a 
door  in  a  humble  wall  on  the  fondamenta  hangs 
a  shield  on  which  is  sculptured  an  arm  cased 
in  steel.  This  shield  belonged  to  the  Brazzo 
(Braccio)  family,  of  Tuscan  origin,  who  had 
settled  in  Venice  and  acquired  much  land  in  this 
district.  The  name  is  worthy  of  preservation ; 
for  one  at  least  of  the  family  has  left  an  enduring 
mark  in  the  annals  of  the  city.  "In  1437,"  we 
read  in  Tassini's  Curiosifa  Veneziane,  "  a  Geoffrey 
da  Brazzo,  with  some  companions,  founded,  in 
the  Campo  di  SS.  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  the  Scuola 
di  San  Marco  of  which  he  was  the  Grand  Guard- 
ian." Within  the  unpaved  court  the  house  of 
the  worthy  Geoffrey  is  still  standing,  and  it  pre- 
serves its  early  Gothic  and  Byzantine  features  but 

[  256  ]  ' 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

little  obscured  by  later  additions.  It  is  not  alto- 
gether gloomy  though  evidently  inhabited  by  very 
poor  people ;  little  gardens  still  blossom  from  the 
leads  and  window  boxes,  and  tables  and  chairs  are 
set  out  under  the  vine  in  the  yard  below.  In  the 
seventeenth  century  the  family  became  extinct,  its 
history  being  closed  by  a  rather  sordid  domestic 
tragedy ;  and  it  is  pleasanter  to  revert  to  the  earlier 
days  of  this  simple,  dignified  citizen's  dwelling 
when  Geoffrey  and  his  associates  discussed  in  it  the 
hopes  and  fears  of  their  School.  Another  page  of 
Venetian  history  lies  open  for  us  at  the  Campo  dei 
Mori  further  along  the  same  rio  to  the  right. 
Our  attention  is  attracted  at  once  by  a  curious 
figure  in  oriental  turban,  with  a  pack  upon  its 
head,  at  the  corner  of  the  square  which  strikes  the 
fondamenta.  Two  more  figures  in  the  same  style 
of  dress  are  stationed  at  other  corners  of  the 
square.  The  crowd  of  urchins  who  throng  round 
us  the  instant  we  alight  will  tell  us  that  these  are 
Sior  Rioba  and  his  brothers.  The  key  to  these 
figures  is  to  be  found  in  a  palace,  the  inner  court 
of  which  opens  on  our  right  hand  as  we  turn  in- 
wards from  the  canal.  It  belonged  to  three 
Greek  brothers,  by  name  Rioba,  Sandi  and  Afani, 
of  the  family  Mastelli,  who  leaving  the  Morea  in 
the  twelfth  century,  on  account  of  disturbances 

[  259  ] 


VENICE 

there,  came  with  great  wealth  to  Venice  and  built 
themselves  this  house  by  the  campo  which  has 
preserved  their  origin  in  its  name.  This  family 
also  has  a  noble  record  in  Venetian  annals.  It 
took  part  in  the  Crusade  of  1202,  and  received 
citizenship  for  its  reward.  Later  it  rested  from 
its  labours  and  set  up  a  spice  shop  in  Cannaregio 
at  the  sign  of  the  Camel.  From  these  avocations 
it  passed  to  a  more  reposeful  existence  on  the 
banks  of  the  Brenta,  and,  like  the  da  Brazzo 
family,  it  became  extinct  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. The  courtyard  of  the  palace,  known  now 
as  the  Palazzo  Camello,  possesses  many  fascinating 
reminders  of  its  past,  though  some  of  its  old  beau- 
ties have  been  taken  from  it  even  in  recent  years. 
The  open  arches  of  the  sotto-portico  have  been 
filled  in,  and  a  corkscrew  stair  is  now  only  recog- 
nisable by  the  pillars  we  see  immured  in  a  circular 
tower.  The  pillars  that  once  supported  the  arches 
of  the  entrance  portico,  now  half  buried  in  the 
ground  from  the  constant  raising  of  its  level,  are 
fine  and  uncommon  examples  of  the  transition 
from  Gothic  to  Renaissance.  Above  the  portico 
are  two  striking  projections  of  carved  stone,  once 
serving  perhaps  to  support  a  lantern  or  coat  of 
arms,  and  in  the  angle  of  this  wall  and  the  main 
building  are  the  relics  of  a  Gothic  pedestal  on 

[  260  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

which,  without  doubt,  some  image  has  stood. 
The  low-beamed  court  to  the  water  is  still  intact 
with  its  finely-carved  architraves  and  early  Gothic 
pillars ;  but  beyond  the  point  of  its  present  habi- 
tation it  has  been  allowed  to  fall  into  decay  from 
the  invading  damp.  If  we  venture  along  this 
outer  court  to  the  water's  edge,  we  shall  find  our- 
selves in  the  Rio  della  Madonna  dell'  Or  to  almost 
opposite  the  campo  and  church.  By  the  help  of 
a  barge  which  we  may  reasonably  hope  to  find 
moored  alongside  the  water-door  of  the  court,  we 
obtained  a  view  of  the  most  characteristic  aspect 
of  the  Palazzo  Camello.  The  passer-by  on  the 
fondamenta  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  by  its 
beautiful  decorative  balcony  and  windows  and  the 
Byzantine  frieze  in  a  lower  storey,  but  above  all 
by  a  camel  and  driver  sculptured  in  admirable 
relief  on  the  wall. 

Returning  to  the  Campo  dei  Mori,  we  make 
our  way  again  to  the  Fondamenta  della  Misericor- 
dia,  where  we  disembarked.  Almost  immediately 
on  our  left,  backing  the  Palazzo  Camello,  and 
perhaps  originally  forming  a  part  of  it,  is  the  house 
of  Tintoretto.  It  is  still  unspoiled  of  its  ancient 
decorations  of  small  sculptured  figures  and  formal 
designs ;  and,  above  all,  it  is  interesting  architec- 
turally for  its  elaborate  carved  wooden  cornice  on 

[  261  ] 


VENICE 

the  two  upper  storeys  to  which  time  has  given  the 
appearance  of  stone.  Howells,  in  his  description 
of  Tintoretto's  house,  conveys  an  impression  of 
sordid  desolation  in  the  building  and  its  inmates. 
It  may  lately  have  fallen  on  better  days ;  for  there 
is  now  nothing  forbidding  about  it,  and  indeed  it 
is  a  welcome  refuge  from  the  swarms  of  dirty  and 
discordant  children  whom  the  presence  of  a  stranger 
on  this  campo  seems  to  have  a  peculiar  power  of 
attracting.  Its  upper  windows  look  out  across  the 
rio  on  a  garden  with  a  majestic  cypress  tree,  and 
down  the  long  canal  to  the  wide  waters  of  the 
lagoon.  And  some  of  the  inmates  of  the  house 
still  have  a  share  in  the  ancient,  though  humbler, 
arts  of  Venice.  There  are  beadmakers  working, 
as  usual  in  almost  total  darkness,  in  an  airless  room 
in  the  basement.  After  we  have  seen  these  rows 
of  patient,  crouching  workers,  bending  hour  after 
hour  over  their  gas  jets,  the  beads  of  the  lamp-lit 
Merceria  will  call  up  irresistibly  the  low  benches, 
the  glittering  wires,  the  glazed  and  darkened 
windows.  For  there  seems  a  strange  irony  in  the 
birth  of  these  shining  toys  out  of  the  gloom. 
Many  unacknowledged  artists  have  worked  upon 
these  beads ;  much,  no  doubt,  of  their  workman- 
ship is  mechanical ;  but  if  we  look  into  them  we 
shall  find  many  little  originalities  in  the  gradation 

[  262  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

of  line  and  colour,  many  touches  of  taste  and  feel- 
ing in  their  graceful  and  various  designs.  The 
house  is  much  as  it  might  have  been  in  Tintoretto's 
day,  but  the  walls  seem  empty  and  unresponsive 
and  to  have  less  part  in  him  than  those  palace 
fronts  in  which  some  faded  fresco  bears  witness  to 
the  magic  of  his  hand.  But  there  is  a  building 
near  by  that  may  rightly  be  called  the  house  of 
Tintoretto,  where  we  may  more  faithfully  com- 
mune with  his  mind  —  the  Church  of  the 
Madonna  dell'  Orto,  in  which,  Ridolfi  tells  us,. 
Tintoretto  worked  for  his  keep  alone  "  because  his 
fertile  brain  was  constantly  boiling  with  new 
thoughts,"  and  thereby  roused  the  wrath  of  his 
fellow  artists.  It  was  here  that  Meissonier,  com- 
ing in  his  old  age  to  Venice,  set  himself  down  at 
the  feet  of  the  master  and  copied  Tintoretto's  Last 
'Judgment  in  the  choir.  But  it  is  not  primarily  for 
the  artist's  great  works  in  the  choir  that  we  return 
again  and  again  to  the  Madonna  dell'  Orto.  It  is 
for  a  painting  no  less  the  work  of  a  giant,  but  of  a 
giant  gifted  with  tenderness  equal  to  his  strength. 
The  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  has  been  moved 
from  its  original  place  on  the  organ  to  a  side 
chapel  in  which  both  light  and  space  are  inade- 
quate, so  that,  coming  on  it  first  out  of  the  day- 
light, we  receive  only  a  vague  impression  of  its 

[  263  ] 


VENICE 

greatness.  It  is  only  gradually  that  it  breaks  on 
us  in  its  combination  of  vigorous  motion  and  life 
with  sublime  repose,  and  that  we  come  to  distin- 
guish the  elements  that  make  up  its  power  and  to 
appreciate  the  singleness  and  intensity  of  vision 
which,  amid  all  its  wealth  of  resource,  never 
wavers  in  loyalty  to  the  central  idea.  In  Titian's 
Presentation^  the  mountain  background,  the  crowd 
of  Venetian  citizens,  the  old  egg  woman,  the 
Virgin,  the  High  Priest,  appear  as  separate  inter- 
ests ;  in  Tintoretto's  Presentation  all  the  elements 
are  unified ;  there  is  but  one  moment,  one  point, 
to  which  everything  tends.  The  lovely  women 
in  the  foreground,  the  mighty  figures  reclining  on 
the  stair,  the  mysterious  trio  behind  in  the  shadow 
of  the  balustrade,  all  subserve  the  quiet,  yet  pas- 
sionate drama  enacted  above  in  the  meeting  of  the 
High  Priest  and  Virgin.  At  last,  as  at  first,  these 
two  figures  fill  our  mind ;  their  mutual  contempla- 
tion is  compelling.  The  Virgin  is  set  against  the 
sky,  near  the  top  of  the  stair  she  is  ascending  with 
blithe  and  childlike  confidence,  her  right  hand 
over  her  heart.  She  has  no  eyes  except  for  the 
High  Priest.  She  moves  up  to  him  without  hes- 
itation or  drawing  back.  And  he  is  bent  on  her 
entirely.  From  the  height  of  his  great  stature, 
•with  the  supreme  majesty  of  his  office  about  him, 

[  264  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

the  High  Priest,  between  his  robe-bearers,  extends 
his  hands  above  the  ascending  childish  figure  —  a 
world  of  thought,  of  awe,  of  worship,  in  that 
mysterious  and  lofty  benediction. 

We  will  go  back  again  along  the  Rio  della 
Sensa  to  the  point  where  we  entered  it,  turning 
now  to  the  right  under  the  Ponte  Rosso  into  the 
Rio  dei  Trasti  which  soon  widens  into  a  broad 
way  of  unbridged  water  leading  out  to  the  lagoon 
and  dividing  the  island  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Orto 
from  that  of  Sant'  Alvise.  The  rio  into  which 
we  have  now  come  is  the  third  long  parallel  water- 
way we  have  struck  in  our  journey  through  this 
district.  It  stretches  on  either  side  of  us,  spanned 
by  wooden  bridges,  between  the  west  lagoon  and 
the  Sacca  della  Misericordia.  We  will  follow  it 
for  a  short  distance  to  the  left  to  the  little  campo 
of  Sant'  Alvise  from  which  it  takes  its  name. 
Here,  in  the  church  hangs  that  series  of  strange 
little  canvases  that  Ruskin  did  not  hesitate  to  at- 
tribute to  Carpaccio.  They  are  hung  on  a  wall 
near  the  entrance  door  without  order  or  precaution, 
signed  in  great  sprawling  childish  characters  Vetor 
Carpacio.  Perhaps  our  pleasure  at  penetrating  the 
by-ways  of  the  city  to  this  remote  little  island 
makes  us  at  first  uncritically  appreciative  of  the 
•quaint  square  canvases.  Ruskin  thought  them 

[  265  ] 


VENICE 

the  works  of  Carpaccio  at  eight  or  nine  years  of 
age,  but  he  was  confessedly  writing  from  memory, 
and  face  to  face  with  the  reality  might  have  re- 
considered his  verdict.  The  paintings  seem  too 
sophisticated  for  a  young  Carpaccio,  too  feeble  for 
an  older  one.  The  architectural  details  belong  in 
many  respects  to  a  period  of  the  Renaissance  later 
than  that  which  Carpaccio  knew,  and  though, 
behind  their  technical  incompetence  and  absurd 
anachronisms,  we  seem  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
masterful  imaginativeness  of  Carpaccio,  we  shall 
probably  feel  Molmenti's  verdict  against  their 
authenticity  to  be  more  substantial  than  Ruskin's 
reminiscence  which  was  framed  in  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  discovery  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  Vene- 
tian artists.  One  of  the  paintings,  The  Meeting  of 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  has  an  interest 
apart  from  its  quaint  fancy.  We  may  conjecture 
that  the  artist  was  drawing  on  a  memory  of  some 
work  from  the  east ;  for  the  wooden  bridge  and 
the  figures  wavering  at  each  end  of  it,  the  winding 
river,  the  little  round  Renaissance  building  to 
symbolise  Jerusalem,  and,  above  all,  the  swans  in 
the  stream  below,  and  the  tall  blue  peaks  in  the 
background,  remind  us  of  nothing  so  much  as 
the  willow  pattern  plate  familiar  to  our  childhood. 
We  will  leave  on  one  side  the  scenes  from  Christ's 

[  266  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

Passion  by  Tiepolo,  which  by  some  incongruous 
chance  also  are  preserved  in  this  humble  aisleless 
church,  merely  remarking  that  it  is  necessary  to 
arrive  here  early  ;  for  the  sacristan,  whose  duties 
extend  to  both  the  churches  on  the  two  neigh- 
bouring islands,  hurries  off  at  half-past  nine  for 
the  office  at  the  Madonna  dell'  Orto,  and  Sant' 
Alvise  is  shut. 

We  will  return  along  the  rio,  past  the  Madonna 
dell'  Orto  and  the  Palazzo  Camello  to  the  Sacca 
della  Misericordia.  We  shall  have  occasion  else- 
where to  speak  at  length  of  this  unfrequented 
square  of  water.  It  looks  out  to  Murano  and  the 
mountains,  and  is  bounded  on  the  south  and  west 
by  the  Abazia  della  Misericordia  and  the  garden 
of  the  Casa  degli  Spiriti.  The  Abazia  della  Miseri- 
cordia is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  ruins  in  all 
Venice.  It  has  its  roots  far  back  in  the  past ;  for 
the  abbey  church  was  built  in  939  and  handed 
over  to  hermits  and,  later,  to  Augustinian  Brothers, 
who  added  to  it  a  convent.  A  school  was  erected 
beside  the  church  in  1308,  and  this  was  later  en- 
larged and  extended  by  a  hospital  and  chapel.  In 
the  sixteenth  century  the  old  hospice  was  given 
over  to  the  silk-weavers,  and  another,  more  spacious 
and  magnificent,  was  substituted.  On  the  Fonda- 
menta  dell'  Abazia,  close  beside  the  Scuola  di 

[267] 


VENICE 

i 

Santa  Maria  della  Misericordia,  is  a  wonderful  re-* 
lief,  over  the  entrance  to  the  hospice  for  poorer 
members  of  the  confraternity,  bearing  the  date 
1505.  It  represents  the  Virgin  with  robes  out- 
spread to  enclose  and  shelter  a  little  company  of 
hooded  Brothers  who  kneel  around  her ;  the  relief 
is  beautiful  in  workmanship,  and  there  are  traces 
of  lovely  colour  in  the  folds  of  the  Virgin's  gar- 
ments. An  exquisite  square  campanile  rises  in  the 
part  of  the  abbey  buildings  that  is  still  inhabited 
by  Franciscan  Brothers,  but  the  northern  front 
which  overlooks  the  Sacca  is  a  long,  roofless, 
two-storeyed  wall  of  brick  with  closed  shutters  — 
the  facade  of  a  weed-grown  ruin.  This  isolated 
northern  wall  is  exquisite  in  colouring :  its  pink 
plaster  has  been  partly  worn  away  to  the  red 
bricks,  partly  tempered  to  soft  coral  where  it  still 
lies  on  the  hoary  stone.  Sparse  weeds  cover  the 
top,  outlined  against  the  sky,  and  plants  which  no 
hand  of  man  has  sown  spring  from  the  crevices  in 
the  brick.  In  the  early  morning  the  Abazia  is  in 
shade,  and  its  image  in  the  smooth,  shining  water 
is  gifted  with  a  new  beauty  and  strength.  Look- 
ing back  upon  the  east  wall,  part  of  which  is  in 
ruins,  we  see  the  broad  Rio  di  Noale  branching  in 
two  smaller  channels  right  and  left  of  the  garden 
wall  of  the  police  station.  This  wall  has  a  central 

[  268  ] 


VENETIAN   WATERWAYS 

window  looking  out  to  the  lagoon,  and  often 
towards  evening  two  figures  may  be  seen  through 
it,  framed  against  the  green  and  taking  their  pleas- 
ure in  the  garden  as  in  some  old  picture. 

The  Sacca  della  Misericordia  has  a  majestic 
corner-stone  in  the  Casa  degli  Spiriti,  the  long  gar- 
den of  which  is  joined  to  the  island  of  the  Abazia 
by  the  Ponte  della  Sacca,  a  beautiful  bridge  of  pale 
rose  stone  bound  and  lined  with  white  marble. 
To  those  who  live  overlooking  the  Sacca,  the 
House  of  the  Spirits  becomes  an  inseparable  part 
of  the  landscape  of  the  lagoon.  Modern  incredu- 
lity has  preferred  to  talk  of  smugglers  instead  of 
spirits,  or  to  find  in  the  weird  echoes  which  inhabit 
the  Sacca  and  the  neighbouring  waterways  an 
explanation  of  its  name.  Others  maintain  that  it 
owes  it  to  the  companies  of  wit  and  intellect  that 
gathered  there  in  the  days  of  Titian  and  Aretino ; 
no  proofs,  however,  have  been  offered  in  support 
of  this  alluring  suggestion.  But  if  modernity  has 
driven  out  the  spirits,  the  house  itself  has  become 
a  ghost.  In  the  midst  of  the  thunderstorms  which 
from  time  to  time  break  over  the  lagoon  the  Casa 
degli  Spiriti  stands  out  a  ghostly  landmark,  framed 
suddenly  by  a  sickle  of  gold  or  flashing  silver,  or 
illuminated  by  a  level  flood  of  purple,  a  place  of 
revel  for  the  spirits  of  the  storm.  In  the  calm 

[  271  ] 


VENICE 

moonlight  it  appears  more  pallid  than  the  moon 
herself;  in  the  black  starless  night  still  the  huge 
corner-stone  looms  out  on  the  edge  of  the  lagoon. 
And  there  is  no  watch-tower  to  equal  the  Casa 
degli  Spiriti  for  the  spectacle  of  dawn  upon  the 
mountains.  Those  who  wake  within  Venice  under 
a  glimmering  grey  sky,  with  rifts  of  remote,  trans- 
parent blue,  hear  talk  of  coming  rain.  But  the 
House  of  Spirits  which  kept  watch  all  night  upon 
the  north  lagoon,  has  had  its  day  already  in  one 
short  hour  of  dawn.  It  has  seen  the  Alps  rise  blue 
and  clear  behind  the  low  green  line  of  the  main- 
land ;  it  has  seen  the  ruby  fire  drawn  from  them 
by  the  dawn ;  it  has  seen  the  crystal  path  of  the 
lagoon  fade  to  the  dove's  neck  with  its  waves  of 
peacock  green ;  it  has  seen  the  fishing-boats  come 
pressing  with  their  many-coloured  sails  against  the 
sunrise,  each,  as  it  turned  before  the  wind,  sealed 
with  a  golden  blessing  from  the  god  of  day. 

But  the  House  of  the  Spirits  which  dominates 
these,  the  immaterial  glories  of  the  lagoon,  rules 
over  a  domain  of  vivid  colour  and  activity.  For 
from  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  there  is 
continual  traffic  down  the  Sacca  of  fruit  barges 
bound  for  Rialto  from  Sant'  Erasmo,  the  garden 
of  Venice,  and  of  milk  barges  from  the  mainland. 
It  is  not  always  an  easy  life,  that  of  the  feeders  of 

[  272  ] 


VENETIAN    WATERWAYS 

the  city  —  in  which,  as  Sansovino  says,  nothing 
grows,  but  everything  is  found.  There  are  many 
days  when  cold  and  rain  and  adverse  winds  mean  real 
suffering  to  the  sellers  of  fruit  and  milk.  Again 
and  again  one  is  reminded  of  T.  E.  Brown's  won- 
derful description  of  the  fishing-boat,  with  its 
dirt,  its  noise,  its  foul-mouthed  crew  transformed 
beneath  "  the  broad  benediction  of  the  west  "  as 
one  sees  a  milk  barge  toiling  up  the  channel 
against  wind  and  tide,  with  its  crowd  of  men 
and  women.  The  men  begin  to  hoist  the  sail 
with  loud  excited  cries ;  the  women  crouch  low 
for  shelter,  smoking  or  munching  their  crusts. 
They  seem  lumpish  leaden  combatants  in  the 
lists  against  the  elements,  with  small  hope  of 
conquest.  Then,  suddenly,  as  it  rounds  the  corner 
of  the  Casa  degli  Spiriti,  the  ponderous  boat  with 
its  dejected  crew  spreads  its  sails  like  a  bird,  a 
thing  of  swift  delight  lifted  into  the  strong  hand 
of  the  wind. 

If  we  halt  but  for  an  hour  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Abazia,  we  may  have  a  glimpse  of  many  aspects 
of  the  city's  floating  life ;  joy  and  mourning 
follow  in  unplanned  succession,  strong  passion 
and  the  merchandise  of  every  day  jostle  each 
other.  Now  there  passes  down  the  Sacca  a  gon- 
dola bearing  a  coffin  to  San  Michele,  now  a  slow- 

•i  [  273  ] 


VENICE 

creeping  barge  under  a  mountain  of  planks,  now 
a  little  company  of  lowing  calves  who  can  have 
but  one  destination  in  this  city  without  pasture, 
now  a  barge  of  necklaces  from  Murano  that  lie 
coiled  together  like  shining  fish  of  many  colours. 
There  is  a  moment  of  late  August  when  all 
seasons  seem  to  meet  and  lavish  their  brightest 
colours  on  Rialto,  and  on  the  many  fruit-stalls  of 
Venice  and  on  the  barges  that  creep  leisurely  up 
and  down  the  canals.  If  we  turn  again  to  the 
heart  of  the  city  in  the  wake  of  one  of  those 
fruit  barges,  we  may  imagine  ourselves  sharing  in 
ancient  pomps  and  festivals.  For  their  tapestry  is 
gorgeous ;  pyramids  of  peaches  bound  about  with 
green  leaves,  of  tomatoes  and  brilliant  pepper 
pods,  huge  watermelons  cut  open  to  show  the  crisp, 
rosy  pulp ;  piles  of  figs,  brown  and  green ;  pears, 
apples,  grapes ;  and  choicest  of  all,  the  delicious 
red  fragola  or  strawberry-grape.  All  these  and 
many  more  make  up  the  brilliant  burden  of  the 
barges  from  Sant'  Erasmo.  We  may  follow  them 
as  they  wind  through  the  lesser  waterways,  now  in 
sun,  now  in  shadow,  till  the  pageant  is  welcomed 
in  the  full  flowing  day  of  the  Grand  Canal  and 
the  barges  empty  themselves  at  Rialto. 


[  274  ] 


Cimpter  Cen 

ARTISTS   OF  THE   VENETIAN   RENAISSANCE 

IT  can  be  no  matter  for  wonder  that  colour 
was  the  elected  medium  of  expression  for 
Venice :  endowed,  by  reason  of  her  water, 
with  a  twofold  gift  of  light,  she  was  also  perhaps 
more  splendid  than  any  other  city  in  the  details  of 
her  daily  life.  Colour  was  its  substance.  Every- 
thing was  pictorial  and  rich  and  festive.  Even  on 
a  dark  day  the  rooms  of  the  Accademia  seem  full 
of  sunshine  from  the  treasure  they  hold  of  ancient 
Venice.  If  Bellini's  Procession  of  the  Cross  on  the 
Piazza  of  San  Marco  were  missing  from  its  place, 
we  should  feel  that  a  light  had  been  put  out. 
The  Venetians  had  always  been  decorators.  The 
pictures  of  the  first  masters  —  Vivarini,  d' Ale- 
magna,  Jacobello  del  Fiore  and  many  others  — 
seem  literally  spun  out  of  the  furnaces  of  Murano. 
They  are  no  primitives  in  their  mastery  of  colour. 
Consider  for  a  moment  the  Madonna  and  Saints 
of  Vivarini  and  d'Alemagna  in  the  Sala  della  Pre- 
sentazione.  The  natural  life  of  the  fields  has  been 
made  to  serve  a  design  of  amazing  richness.  The 

[275  ] 


VENICE 

Virgin's  golden  throne  is  carved  with  acorns  and 
roses,  and  luxuriant  oak  foliage  forms  its  decorative 
fringe ;  the  fruits  of  the  garden  in  which  she  sits 
are  lavished  round  her ;  the  grass  is  gemmed  with 
countless  tiny  flowers,  trefoil  and  strawberry,  milk- 
wort  and  potentilla,  and  the  infant  Christ  has  burst 
open  a  golden  pomegranate,  displaying  its  burden 
of  rich  crimson  seeds.  There  is  scarcely  a  har- 
mony of  colour  unattempted,  scarcely  a  jewel  un- 
set, from  the  rainbow  of  the  angels'  wings,  and  the 
rim  of  fluctuating  colours  on  the  Virgin's  green 
robe  folded  back  over  peacock  blue,  to  the  mosaics 
in  the  burning  gold  of  the  angels'  haloes,  in  the 
Virgin's  crown,  and  in  the  mitres  of  the  Fathers. 
There  too  is  the  very  vermilion  of  Veronese,  that 
wonderful  salvia  scarlet  to  which  the  Feast  in  Levi's 
House  owes  so  much  of  its  decorative  significance. 
We  shall  be  better  equipped  for  understanding  the 
early  colour-masters  if  we  realise  that  their  dowry 
came  to  them  not  only  from  the  lagoon.  The 
marvellous  rainbow  of  Venice  the  "  Ambiguous 
One  "  was  not  their  only  light  nor  the  deep  azure 
and  emerald  and  gold,  which  she  hung  about  her, 
the  only  jewels  they  knew.  The  garment  of 
Venetian  art  is  inwoven  with  threads  of  mountain 
glory,  of  rich  harvests  of  grape  and  golden  grain  : 
we  must  go  up  into  the  mainland  of  Venice  to 

[  276  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

understand  the  art  of  the  first  masters  no  less  than 
that  of  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoretto  and  Veronese, 
whose  conceptions  were  penetrated  with  the  very 
sunshine  of  earth,  a  warmer-bodied,  fuller  sunshine 
than  Venice  of  the  waters  could  know,  full  of 
secret  throbbings  of  the  hidden  springing  life  for 
light  and  ripening.  Autumn  is  the  loom  on  which 
was  woven  the  robe  of  Venetian  art,  autumn  with 
its  indomitable  splendours  of  gold  and  silver,  green 
and  cremoisin  and  the  supreme  scarlet  of  the  salvia. 
These  colours  are  steeped  in  an  impermeable  dye : 
they  seem  saturated  with  the  light,  burning  out 
the  more  gloriously,  the  more  intensely,  as  their 
allotted  span  grows  less.  The  passion  of  the  spring 
is  of  another  kind  ;  it  needs  the  present  magic  of 
the  sun  to  draw  out  its  exquisite,  incipient  radi- 
ance ;  it  cannot  lavish  glory  except  when  his  coun- 
tenance is  bent  upon  it.  But  in  the  radiance  of 
autumn  foliage  there  is  a  daring  that  darkness  is 
impotent  to  quell  :  it  is  like  a  shout  of  triumph  in 
the  face  of  death,  a  procession  of  all  the  glory  of 
earth  into  the  kingdom  of  the  dead,  not  reluctant,  not 
made  fearful  by  the  rumours  that  have  floated  to  it 
in  the  grey-mantled  dawn,  in  the  fierce  trumpeting 
of  rain  and  wind ;  boldly,  gloriously  it  marches, 
scattering  joyfully  the  gems  it  cannot  hold,  that 
nothing  shall  be  saved.  We  sing  no  dirge,  but  a 

[  277  1 


VENICE 

triumph  song,  as  the  golden  trophies  fall  —  a  gold 
more  refulgent  than  Bellini's  fa9ade  of  San  Marco, 
though  this  was  gold  of  the  purest  even  Venice, 
the  golden  city,  could  win  from  her  furnaces. 
We  may  still  see  these  mainland  autumns  where 
the  colour-masters  gathered  their  treasures ;  on  the 
borders  of  the  mountains  we  may  sit  in  such  a 
garden  of  the  Madonna  as  Vivarini  and  his  fellows 
record.  In  the  late  autumn  the  sun  is  slow  to  win 
his  way ;  but  when  he  comes  there  is  no  splendour 
to  rival  the  fire  of  the  salvia-beds,  round  cups  of 
concentrated  light  springing  up  into  spires  and 
tongues  of  flame  among  the  arrow-shaped  green 
leaves.  No  words  can  describe  the  brilliance  of 
this  leaping  flame,  devouring  the  sunshine  like  fuel, 
and  scattering  it  abroad  in  myriad  gems  of  pene- 
trating brightness.  In  the  long  luminous  grass  of 
the  lawn  will  be  scattered  here  and  there  a  rose- 
bush of  the  Madonna's  crimson,  and  tall  gold- 
edged  lilies  may  be  seen  through  the  close-hung 
flaps  of  the  medusa  leaves.  This  splendid  tapestry 
is  spread  upon  a  poplar  background  of  flickering 
gold  and  green,  the  steadier  gold  of  low  mulberries, 
and  grey-bodied  autumn  apple-trees  on  which  the 
leaves  glow  blood-red,  while  behind  all  rise  the 
grassy  slopes  of  the  mountain  outposts  crossed  by 
the  shadow  of  some  jutting  rock. 

[  278  ] 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

Often  among  the  humbler  Venetian  painters, 
less  versed  in  the  deeper  significance  of  human  life 
and  religious  symbol,  we  find  a  singular  mastery 
of  perspective  and  many  signs  of  familiarity  with 
the  interplay  of  light  and  shade  among  the  moun- 
tains. We  are  reminded  again  and  again  of  their 
apprenticeship  to  nature  as  we  see  one  of  the  count- 
less ruined  towers  on  the  outposts  of  the  Alps  rising 
against  the  golden  sunset  light  within  its  thread- 
bare rampart  of  dusky  branches.  The  face  of  the 
mountains  was  a  vital  and  intimate  fact  to  them, 
not  an  accepted  piety.  We  are,  for  instance,  often 
tempted  to  consider  the  persons  of  Cima's  sacred 
themes  less  as  the  essential  interest  than  as  a  finely 
designed  harmony  of  colour  in  the  foreground  of 
a  landscape.  In  his  native  city  of  Conegliano  he 
stored  his  mind  with  mountain  wonders,  and  in 
his  wide  and  delicate  horizons  there  are  many 
touches  inspired  by  a  living  memory  of  the  scene. 
We  have  known  the  joy  of  that  limpid  atmosphere 
after  days  of  mist  and  rain,  those  floating  sunlit 
clouds  upon  the  transparent  blue,  that  jewel-like 
gleam  of  a  deep  pool,  the  delicacy  of  autumn  trees 
passing  into  gold,  the  foretaste  of  an  untrodden 
stronghold  in  the  winding  paths  that  lose  them- 
selves and  come  again  to  view  as  they  coil  up  the 
castled  heights.  The  landscape  is  conventionalised 

[  279  ] 


VENICE 

of  course,  but  its  spirit  is  there  —  its  rare  shades  of 
colour,  its  marvellous  varieties  of  depth ;  and  ever 
behind,  there  is  the  vision  of  the  mountains  cut- 
ting into  the  sky  in  a  sharp,  clear,  azure  coldness, 
or  with  a  luminous  haze  round  their  base  in  the 
mellowness  of  an  autumn  day.  As  backgrounds 
we  see  them  only,  for  Venice  had  other  needs  than 
of  mountains ;  but  many  of  these  painters  knew 
them  as  near  realities ;  they  had  stept  home  in  the 
glory  of  an  autumn  sunset  amid  the  revel  of  the  vint- 
age, their  whole  being  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
and  the  splendour  of  life;  they  had  drunk  that  fresh- 
trodden,  unfermen ted  juice,  the  vino  mosto,  sufficient 
to  stir  those  whose  senses  are  alert  and  in  whom 
the  passion  of  the  world  runs  high.  It  needed 
indeed  a  Titian  to  transform  the  vintage  of  Cadore 
into  the  bacchic  rout  of  his  Ariadne,  but  it  is  there, 
in  the  wooded  mountain  slopes,  in  the  pageantry 
of  evening,  when  the  fancy  soars  to  Ariadne's 
crown  faintly  dawning  in  the  warm  blue,  and 
sweeps  round  some  mist-clad  inland  lake  to  float 
among  the  turreted  heights. 

Or  if  we  take  our  stand  on  the  keep  of  the 
ruined  Roman  citadel  of  Asolo,  when  the  evening 
light  streaming  down  into  the  shadowy  undulations 
of  the  valley,  which  tosses  in  ceaseless  waves  round 
the  mountain's  base,  illuminates  a  land  of  rich  and 

[  280  ] 


PALAZZO    KEZZONICO. 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

golden  peace,  we  feel  again  the  painters  of  Venice 
at  our  side  ;  the  vague,  rich  spirit  of  the  winding 
valleys,  allied  with  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the 
mountains,  above  whose  dark  barrier  we  have 
glimpses  of  remote  and  shining  peaks,  the  tiny 
citadels  half  gathered  into  the  folding  mist,  the 
alternate  radiance  and  keen  obscurity  of  the  lower 
peaks  now  visited  and  now  forsaken  by  the  incon- 
stant sunset  light,  the  sudden  illumination  of  a 
solitary  peasant  or  a  single  tree  in  sharp  relief 
against  the  twilight  —  all  these  have  passed  into 
the  canvas  of  Giorgione :  in  him,  above  all,  we 
seem  to  drink  that  wondrous  potion  compact  of 
evening  vapour  and  golden  light  which  the  sunset 
pours  into  the  dim  goblet  of  the  mountain  valleys. 
And  we  may  record  here,  how,  in  the  last  period 
of  the  Venetian  Renaissance,  the  great  decorator 
Veronese  found  a  field  of  activity  under  the  shadow 
of  Asolo.  When  Marcantonio  Barbaro,  Procura- 
tor of  San  Marco,  and  his  brother  the  Patriarch 
of  Aquileja,  bade  Palladio  build  their  villa  at  the 
little  village  of  Maser,  they  called  on  their  friend 
Paolo  to  decorate  it  within.  And  this  perfect 
villa  is  one  of  the  happiest  monuments  to  the  two 
artists ;  the  excellent  skill  of  both  is  brought  into 
congenial  play,  and  to  the  courtly  old  patrician 
Barbaro  we  owe  a  debt  which  perhaps  we  partly 

[  283  ] 


VENICE 

cancel  in  the  coin  of  our  pleasure.  The  simple 
yet  sumptuous  villa  lies  so  dexterously  disposed 
below  its  cypress  hill,  that  it  seems  almost  to 
consist  of  the  loggia  alone  as  we  climb  up  the 
garden  slope  from  the  road,  through  the  judicious 
mingling  of  smooth  lawn  and  scythe-cut  grass  full 
of  scabious  and  delicate  Alpine  flowers.  Delicious 
scents  float  down  from  the  late  roses  along  the 
terrace  and  the  brilliant  flower-beds  in  the  grass  ; 
the  medusa  tree  stands  luminous  against  the  ever- 
green shrubs  and  cypress,  and  against  the  yellow 
wall  a  huge  cactus  raises  its  mysterious  purple 
sword-blade.  The  villa  is  spacious  and  full  of  air 
and  light ;  the  suite  of  rooms  above  the  loggia, 
containing  the  great  part  of  Paolo's  work,  open 
one  out  of  the  other,  and  each  has  a  glass  door 
that  leads  directly  to  the  lawn  and  grotto  in  the 
cleft  of  the  hill  behind,  while  the  central  hall  lies 
open  on  each  side  to  wide  stretches  of  mountain 
country.  There  were  no  stern  censors  here  to  ask 
Paolo  if  his  homely  details  were  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  gravity  of  his  theme ;  the  artist  was  work- 
ing for  a  friend  in  a  house  that  was  full  of  light 
and  sunshine  and  the  clear  mountain  air,  and  he 
has  put  his  soul  with  most  lucid  fantasy  into  the 
allegories  of  autumn  and  springtime,  of  Cybele 
and  Juno,  Vulcan  and  Apollo,  of  dogs  and  boys 

[  284  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

and  girls  at  play  among  the  mimic  balconies, 
of  sprays  of  fig  and  vine  leaf;  into  the  figures  of 
Michelangelesque  strength  reclining  above  the 
doors,  and  the  tiny  processions  of  men  and  beasts 
in  chiaroscuro  on  the  friezes ;  into  the  clear,  radi- 
ant faces  of  women  and  sinewy  forms  of  men  ;  the 
eloquent  dogs  and  lions ;  and  not  least  into  the 
lithe  and  gallant  figure  of  himself,  advancing  from 
the  mimic  door  at  one  end  of  the  long  vista  to 
meet  the  lady  who  trips  out  from  the  opposite  end, 
r arnica  delf  artista  —  or,  as  the  guide-book  dis- 
creetly says  —  his  wife.  The  portrait  of  himself 
is  done  with  much  imagination  and  even  pathos. 
He  was  a  dreamer,  too,  this  Veronese.  These  fig- 
ures of  the  painter  and  his  dog  give  us  pause ;  they 
make  us  feel  that  he  would  have  been  good  to 
walk  the  mountains  with ;  that  if  he  could  step 
out  now  from  the  room  where  he  keeps  continual 
watch,  on  to  the  exquisite  grass  plot,  with  its  happy 
tuft  of  white  anemone  and  pale  Michaelmas  daisy, 
we  might  win  from  him  some  mountain  confidence 
which  he  has  not  entrusted  to  canvas  or  fresco.  It 
is  a  pleasure  to  picture  Veronese  at  his  work  upon 
Marcantonio's  villa.  Every  midday  he  must  have 
had  good  progress  to  show  ;  for  these  blithe  works 
that  have  kept  their  colour  so  fresh  and  strong  are 
executed  with  a  few  brave  master  strokes  :  they 

[  285  ] 


VENICE 

are  no  less  potent  in  their  swift  presentment  than 
in  their  conception.  We  can  see  him  dismounting 
from  his  scaffold  at  the  summons  of  Barbaro,  re- 
turned from  his  morning  round  among  his  stables 
or  his  orchards ;  we  can  see  him  still  keen  and 
stirred  by  the  creative  impulse,  full  of  that  excited 
pleasure  which  accompanies  expression,  standing  a 
little  aside  while  Barbaro  bears  his  admiration  to 
and  fro  —  now  confessing  that  time  and  office  have 
rusted  his  mythology  and  asking  the  meaning  of 
some  emblem  ;  now  on  the  lookout  for  a  freak 
of  his  friend,  some  beast  or  bird  put  in  perhaps  to- 
give  him  joy ;  now  in  raptures  over  the  old  shoes 
and  broom,  which  he  swears  he  has  just  thrashed 
the  maid  for  leaving  on  the  cornice,  while  Paolo 
stands  by  brimming  with  mirth  at  the  deception  ; 
now  called  upon  to  guess  the  significance  of  the 
fair  lady  bridled  by  her  lord,  which  the  guide-book 
ungallantly  interprets  as  the  victory  of  virtue  over 
vice,  but  which  to  Marcantonio  no  doubt  seemed 
capable  of  less  abstract  explanation.  With  all  their 
nobility  of  design  and  execution,  there  is  something 
about  these  frescoes  so  intimate  and  sympathetic  as 
to  impart  to  us  the  actual  joy  and  health  of  spirit 
which  conceived  them.  Given  the  skill  and  the 
robust  and  prodigal  genius  of  Veronese,  how  should 
they  not  be  joyous  in  these  halls  full  of  light  and 

[  286  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

air  and  sunshine,  the  song  of  birds  and  of  trickling 
water,  the  sounds  of  meadow  and  mountain.  We 
may  take  leave  of  the  mountains  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  those  brave  companies  which  must  often 
have  gathered  in  this  earthly  Paradise  of  Marcan- 
tonio  Barbaro  round  the  long  table  spread  in  the 
loggia  —  such  a  loggia  as  Paolo  himself  so  often 
painted  —  looking  out,  through  the  arches  to  the 
vista  of  creepered  wall  and  over  the  green  meadows 
studded  with  golden  fruit-trees,  to  the  undulating 
country  and  tracts  of  woodland,  now  bathed  in 
liquid  sunshine,  now  gathered  into  a  soft-enfolding 
haze  —  a  wide  ocean  from  which  the  campaniles 
rise  like  masts  of  ships,  and  over  which  the  distant 
villas  are  scattered  like  shining  fishing-boats. 

"  These  workmen,"  says  d'Annunzio  of  the 
Venetian  artists  of  the  Renaissance,  "  create  in  a 
medium  that  is  itself  a  joyous  mystery  —  in  colour, 
the  ornament  of  the  world,  in  colour,  which  seems 
to  be  the  striving  of  the  spirit  to  become  light. 
And  the  entirely  new,  musical  understanding  they 
have  of  colour  acts  in  such  a  way  that  their  creation 
transcends  the  narrow  limits  of  the  symbols  it  rep- 
resents and  assumes  the  lofty,  revealing  faculty  of  an 
infinite  harmony."  Colour  —  which  seems  to  be 
the  striving  of  the  spirit  to  become  light.  These 
words  recur  to  us  again  and  again  face  to  face  with 

[  287  ] 


VENICE 

the  Venetian  masters.  By  the  primitives  the  colours 
are  laid  on  as  accessory  to  the  scene,  as  it  were  fine 
enamel ;  in  the  Renaissance  painters,  they  are  not 
only  woven  into  the  fabric  of  the  picture,  it  grows 
and  moves  through  them.  We  may  choose,  in  il- 
lustration, Giovanni  Bellini's  small  picture  of  the 
Madonna  with  St.  Catherine  and  the  Magdalen  in  the 
Accademia,  because,  though  it  is  in  one  sense  less 
completely  representative  of  the  distinguishing  fea- 
tures of  the  Venetian  school  than,  for  instance,  his 
masterpiece  of  the  Frari,  it  realises  perhaps  more 
fully  than  any  that  "  new  and  musical  understand- 
ing of  colour  "  which  was  the  peculiar  gift  of  the 
Venetians.  It  is  literally  informed  with  radiance ; 
flesh  itself  has  become  spirit,  no  longer  a  covering, 
but  an  atmosphere  —  a  directly  perfect  expression. 
There  is  no  denial  or  emaciation  of  the  flesh  ;  the 
forms  are  strong,  the  habitations  of  a  potent  earth- 
spirit.  The  faces  are  pondering,  penetrating,  pro- 
found, and  withal  extremely  individual ;  they  might 
seem  impassive,  were  it  not  that  every  feature  is 
kindled  by  the  pervading  colour  till  we  seem  to 
feel  it  as  a  sensuous  presence.  It  is  a  quality  of 
colour  that  so  subtly  determines  the  poise  of  their 
hands,  that  makes  their  touch  so  sensitively  pene- 
trating that  feeling  seems  to  flow  from  it  without 
pressure.  The  solemn  harmony  of  red  and  green 

[  288  ] 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

and  blue,  and  of  the  diffused  radiance  of  tiie  flesh 
tints,  is  not  only  lit  from  without  by  the  sun- 
light, it  seems  literally  to  burn  from  within,  depth 
behind  depth,  with  light. 

The  peculiarly  luminous  treatment  of  the  flesh 
perfected  by  Bellini  in  repose,  it  remained  for 
Tintoretto  to  realise  in  motion ;  this  we  may  ven- 
ture to  illustrate  from  a  work  too  immense  for  our 
discussion  in  any  but  a  limited  aspect  —  his  last 
great  work,  The  Paradise,  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
The  quality  we  are  seeking  in  it  becomes  the  more 
remarkable  on  account  of  its  loss  of  superficial 
colour,  so  that  at  first  it  seems  cold  and  faded  as  if 
a  mist  had  fallen  upon  it ;  then,  very  slowly,  like 
day  breaking  out  of  the  veil,  colour  reveals  itself 
as  a  fresh  property  in  the  forms.  We  cannot  pene- 
trate the  depth  of  it ;  rank  behind  rank  the  lumi- 
nous faces  define  themselves  like  mysterious  shapes 
of  the  atmosphere,  some  mere  ghosts  in  the  depths 
which  daylight  cannot  pierce,  some  radiant  already 
with  the  light ;  and  across  and  through  them  all, 
through  the  flame-winged  throng  of  Cherubim, 
piercing  all  companies  and  ranks  of  being  to  the 
extremes  of  the  vast  canvas,  shoot  the  rays  from 
the  central  source  of  light  in  the  seat  of  Christ. 
It  is  a  symphony  of  colour  become  almost  vocal ; 
we  perceive  it  not  only  with  the  eye  but  in  all 

'9  [  289  ] 


VENICE 

our  senses,  this  music  of  the  spheres  which  one 
man  has  dared  to  gather  into  a  single  canvas.  Who 
but  Tintoretto  could  have  dreamed  of  achieving 
this  perspective  built  solely  of  human  forms  and 
faces  ?  Into  all  the  mysteries  of  life  —  those 
echoes  of  experience  which  we  touch  but  faintly, 
those  substances  with  which  we  feel  inexplica- 
ble correspondencies  —  into  these  Tintoretto  has 
looked :  the  rays  from  behind  the  Son  of  God 
have  poured  into  the  heart  of  the  universe,  and 
from  it  has  grown  his  Paradise.  Joy  is  the  heart 
of  this  great  symphony ;  it  works  upon  us  rather 
as  a  creative  force  than  as  a  thing  created,  sounding 
continually  some  new  note  or  rarer  harmony  of 
colour.  At  times  it  overpowers  us,  and  then  amid 
the  maze  of  divine  musicians  and  Cherubim  and 
Seraphim  and  Thrones  and  Principalities  and 
Powers,  some  single  harmonious  human  form, 
strong  in  beauty,  with  wings  of  light,  some  tender, 
lovely  face  of  youth  or  woman,  the  solemn  ges- 
ture of  saint  or  bishop,  the  rainbow  of  an  angel's 
wing,  gives  our  intellect  a  resting-place.  For  it  is 
not  through  obscuring  of  outlines  that  this  wonder 
of  music  in  colour  is  accomplished ;  the  human 
form,  on  which  all  the  notes  are  played,  is  become 
indeed  a  perfect  instrument,  but  not  by  forfeiting 
its  material  strength  or  substance  ;  the  structure  is 

[  290  ] 


By  permission  of  Arnold  Mililtell,  Esq. 

TOWARDS  THE   RIALTO,   SAN  ANGELO. 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

massive,  solid  —  if  to  our  notion  of  solidity  we 
may  unite  the  gift  of  perfect  ease  within  an  ele- 
ment whose  progress  only  is  by  flight,  where  each 
moment  is  poised  but  slightly  in  its  passage  to  the 
next,  where  there  is  no  time  because  no  stable  unit 
to  serve  as  pedestal  for  time.  In  this  great  pic- 
ture, that  faculty  of  the  Venetian  painters  which 
we  are  now  illustrating,  found  perhaps  its  com- 
pletest  realisation  —  the  power  of  winging  flesh 
with  colour  so  that  it  is  endowed  with  the  very 
properties  of  atmosphere. 

This  luminous  quality  of  the  Venetian  painters 
is  realised  by  them  in  many  more  general  ways 
than  in  the  treatment  of  the  human  form.  We 
may  consider  it  in  Carpaccio  in  relation  to  the  sig- 
nificance of  landscape  in  his  compositions.  It  is 
his  power  of  treating  a  scene  atmospherically  that 
supplies  one  chief  charm  of  his  work.  It  is  never 
on  a  day  of  splendour  that  either  he  or  Gentile 
Bellini  depicts  Venice ;  but  constantly  on  a  cold, 
colourless  day  of  late  autumn  the  waters  of  Car- 
paccio seem  to  live  again  for  us  as  we  have  seen 
them  through  the  perspective  of  his  arches  or  in 
the  background  of  a  city  picture.  We  may  see  the 
Grand  Canal  wind  into  the  dark  city  under  the 
pale  familiar  gold  of  his  Rialto  sunset,  and  scat- 
tered sails  on  the  cold,  clear  lagoon  in  weird  con- 

[  293  1 


VENICE 

trast  of  orange  with  the  steely  waters  or  with  the 
pale  rose  or  white  of  buildings.  There  is  a  pecu- 
liar fascination  in  this  clear  neutrality  of  light  in 
sky  and  water  and  buildings ;  it  is  no  less  a  prop- 
erty of  Venice  than  her  more  refulgent  harmo- 
nies. Whatever  hour  of  day  it  comes,  it  has  the 
strange  revelation  of  the  dawn  about  it,  a  curious 
remoteness  in  which  the  works  of  men  arrest 
attention  as  if  fraught  with  a  new  purport.  The 
emotional  significance  of  landscape  was  under- 
stood by  Carpaccio  in  a  wonderful  degree.  How 
much  depends,  for  instance,  in  the  scene  where 
Ursula's  father  dismisses  the  English  ambassadors, 
on  the  vista  of  canal  across  which  lights  fall  from 
dividing  waterways  !  It  is  the  narrowest  strip  ;  but 
the  sunlight  on  the  houses,  the  exquisite  arch  of 
pale  blue  sky  fading  into  white  above  the  distant 
buildings,  give  a  new  value  to  the  interior ;  the 
outside  world,  on  which  the  sun  is  shining,  seems 
to  look  into  the  room  with  the  streaming  light. 
A  still  more  beautiful  illustration  of  Carpaccio's 
understanding  of  light  is  to  be  found  in  the  room 
where  St.  Ursula  lies  asleep.  It  seems,  in  fact, 
scarcely  an  indoor  room ;  through  its  open  doors 
and  windows  it  is  in  close  touch  with  the  air  and 
sky ;  and  the  effect  of  contact  with  wind  and  sky 
is  heightened  by  the  real  plumage  of  the  angel's 

[  294  ] 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

grey  wings,  while  the  back-sweep  of  his  robe 
suggests  a  sudden  alighting  after  flight  with  the 
current  of  air  still  about  him.  We  know  of  no 
picture  to  surpass  this  of  Carpaccio  in  conveying 
the  atmosphere  of  a  room  into  which  the  first 
light  is  breaking  —  the  exhilaration  of  an  illumined 
wall,  the  waking  of  colour  on  window-ledge, 
chair  and  bedcover,  the  blending  of  luminous  and 
shadowy.  It  is  the  light  of  the  first  dawn,  the 
infancy  of  day,  with  a  suggestion  of  unillumined 
sky,  just  creeping  out  of  shadow  in  the  expanse  of 
open,  untrellised  window  behind  the  plants,  a  soft, 
wonderful  stealing  green,  that  has  not  yet  come 
into  its  kingdom.  Even  buildings  are  made  by 
Carpaccio  to  serve  an  atmospheric  effect.  We 
might  illustrate  from  almost  every  picture  in  San 
Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  but  confining  ourselves  to 
the  St.  Ursula  series,  we  shall  find  a  notable  illus- 
tration in  the  buildings  seen  through  the  water- 
gate  in  the  Return  of  the  Embassy,  and  in  the  great 
Renaissance  loggia  which  fills  so  conspicuous  a 
place  in  the  foreground,  and  to  which  airiness  and 
light  have  been  imparted  by  its  great  arches,  by 
the  water  washing  round  its  base,  and  by  the 
spring  of  the  bridge  that  connects  it  with  the 
campo  where  the  King  sits  under  his  canopy. 
Most  striking  of  all,  perhaps,  is  the  subtle  archi- 

[  295  ] 


VENICE 

tectural  treatment  by  which,  in  the  great  threefold 
scene  of  the  Prince's  departure,  his  meeting  with 
Ursula  and  their  blessing  by  the  King,  Carpaccio 
has  bestowed  an  atmosphere  of  remoteness,  almost 
of  fairy  strangeness  on  the  English  harbour  with 
its  castles  and  walls  and  motley  buildings  soaring 
far  up  the  rocky  hillside  into  the  sky,  an  atmos- 
phere entirely  distinct  from  the  upper-world  light 
and  joyousness  of  the  contrasting  court  of  Ursula's 
father. 

There  is  an  element  of  his  native  landscape  that 
Carpaccio  incorporated  with  singular  felicity,  and 
which  is  peculiarly  prominent  in  his  pictures  — 
namely  the  shipping  of  Venice.  In  the  great 
trilogy  of  the  Prince's  departure  the  vessels  are 
a  masterpiece :  there  is  nothing  to  surpass  them  in 
this  kind.  Carpaccio  seems  to  have  realised  to  the 
full  their  varied  elements  of  beauty :  their  static 
properties,  their  weight  and  substance  and  the 
symmetry  of  their  frame,  combined  with  all  the 
radiant  light  and  spring  of  swelling  sail  and  rigging 
and  flag  and  countless  trappings :  all  that  goes  to 
make  a  sailing  ship  a  thing  of  music.  And  it  is 
not  only  vessels  rigged  and  ready  to  float  in  triumph 
on  the  high  seas  that  Carpaccio  depicts :  there  is  a 
vessel  also  in  squeroy  with  all  the  song  gone  from  it, 
one  might  think,  lying  uneasily  on  its  side  with  its 

[  296  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

huge  mast  aslant  across  the  harbour  tower.  It  is 
noteworthy  that  all  the  vessels  of  the  English  King 
seem  in  course  of  repair ;  there  is  something  in 
their  semi-skeleton  condition  which  singularly 
reinforces  the  dream  effect  that  we  have  noticed  in 
this  portion  of  the  picture,  and  the  triumphant 
vessel  that  would  seem  to  belong  to  the  gay  town 
on  our  right  is  united  in  feeling  to  the  shadow  city 
on  the  left  by  the  exceeding  mystery  and  beauty 
of  its  reflection.  This  picture  supplies  us  with 
another  instance  of  the  way  in  which  Venice  oper- 
ated as  an  inspiration  in  the  work  of  Carpaccio, 
even  when  he  was  not  directly  portraying  the  city 
itself.  The  beautiful  effect  of  a  drawbridge  over 
a  great  water,  such  as  he  knew  familiarly  in  Venice, 
had  impressed  itself  on  his  mind :  adapting  it  to 
the  requirements  of  his  scene,  he  reproduces  the 
bridge  of  Rialto  in  the  city  of  the  English  King, 
not  forgetting  the  significance  of  a  crowning  figure 
in  white  at  the  apex  of  the  arch.  We  cannot 
indeed  afford  to  miss  a  detail  in  Carpaccio :  there 
is  never  any  crowding  nor  taking  refuge  in  vague- 
ness. The  varieties  of  shipping,  the  flags  hung 
from  the  windows,  the  most  distant  figures,  are 
all  treated  with  the  same  clearness  and  precision : 
to  each  its  value  is  assigned.  This  fulness  of 
meaning  is  one  of  the  sources  of  his  fascination 

[  297  ] 


VENICE 

for  us :  the  fact  that  he  has  done  a  little  thing 
means  sometimes  more  to  us,  if  we  can  come  at 
the  prompting  purpose,  than  a  pageant  of  main 
figures.  It  is  like  the  side-flash  of  light  which 
a  seemingly  irrelevant  act  casts  sometimes  on  a 
personality. 

The  fidelity  of  Bellini  and  Carpaccio  to  the  facts 
of  Venice  fills  us  continually  with  fresh  wonder: 
it  is  not  the  fidelity  of  copyists  standing  outside 
the  scene  they  paint ;  their  very  heart  is  in  its 
stones.  As  we  watch  Gentile's  gorgeous  procession 
sweep  like  a  stream  from  the  gate  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  round  the  border  of  the  Piazza,  with  the 
sound  of  trumpets,  the  rustle  and  swing  of  noble 
garments  and  the  gleam  of  banners,  we  feel  that 
the  painter  had  heard  and  felt  the  triumph  of  the 
music,  so  marvellously  has  he  conveyed  its  influ- 
ence in  these  moving  figures ;  we  too  hear  the 
jubilation  of  it  as  the  long  tubes  pass  out  and  in. 
With  the  pictures  of  Carpaccio  and  Gentile  Bellini 
before  us  we  may  do  more  than  conjecture  what 
manner  of  men  they  were  who  filled  the  fore- 
ground of  contemporary  Venice.  We  have  not 
masses  or  dispositions  of  colour  merely :  we  seem 
to  move  through  a  crowd  of  living  beings  or  a 
gallery  of  portraits.  No  one  could  paint  loungers 
as  Carpaccio  paints  them;  there  i>  no  monotony 

[  298  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

in  their  inaction ;  the  faces  are  as  various  as  the 
men  —  wonderful  faces,  some  coarse,  some  refined, 
but  almost  all  with  that  indefinable  quality  of 
pathos  in  their  strength  which  is  one  of  the  essen- 
tials of  beauty.  There  are  perhaps  comparatively 
few  among  them  that  would  satisfy  a  conventional 
canon  of  beauty :  their  fascination  lies  in  the  rich 
combination  of  whimsical  humour  and  strength, 
melancholy  and  wit ;  so  eloquent  are  they,  so  quick 
with  intelligence  that  we  are  little  disposed  to 
question  their  material  perfection  or  imperfection. 
These  citizens  of  Gentile  Bellini,  Mansueti  and 
above  all  Carpaccio  —  since  in  him  are  realised  a 
far  greater  variety  of  types  —  impress  us  profoundly 
as  men  of  calm  and  steady  purpose,  who  have  lived, 
felt  and  prevailed.  They  are  men  of  action,  yet 
they  are  dreamers.  And  this  was  not  from  in- 
capacity in  Carpaccio  to  express  vivid  motions  in 
feature  or  form.  When  he  is  more  freely  com- 
posing, as  in  the  Death  of  St.  Ursula,  it  would  be 
hard  to  rival  the  brilliance  and  vivacity  with  which 
he  has  treated  the  turmoil  of  the  one-sided  fray. 
But  these  citizens  —  whether  of  Venice  or  of  Ur- 
sula's court  is  immaterial  —  seem  to  be  governed 
by  some  internal  harmony ;  there  is  a  rhythm  in 
their  motions  and  in  their  standing  still,  which  re- 
flects the  spirit  of  their  time.  We  have  only  to 

[  299  ] 


VENICE 

compare  them  with  the  characters  in  Longhi's 
eighteenth-century  interiors  to  understand  that  a 
great  change  has  taken  place.  Imagine  Carpaccio 
and  Bellini  set  to  paint  as  primary  interests  the 
choosing  of  a  dress,  the  stopping  of  a  tooth,  the 
guessing  of  a  riddle,  a  dancing  lesson,  a  toilette. 
These  things  were  part  of  life,  and  superbly  they 
would  have  done  it;  they  painted  lesser  acts  than 
these  in  the  corner  of  their  pictures,  for  every 
detail  of  the  city  life  so  jealously  guarded  by  its 
rulers  was  precious  to  them.  But  the  difference 
lies  in  the  centre  of  interest.  In  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  detail,  the  side  light,  the  accessory  of 
life  has  swelled  into  the  principal  subject,  and  the 
faces  of  the  actors  are  vacant  as  never  in  Carpaccio. 
It  is  not  so  much  that  they  are  less  beautiful,  that 
they  are  often  witless  ;  but  they  are  lacking  in  pur- 
pose, in  subordination  to  a  common  control.  The 
pulse  of  a  great  civic  life  no  longer  beats  in  them. 
We  have  considered  hitherto  the  manner  in 
which  Venice  used  her  elected  medium  of  expres- 
sion, how  her  painters  had  understood  and  inter- 
preted the  life  of  the  city.  We  will  turn  now  to 
ask  what  attitude  towards  the  facts  of  life  is  re- 
flected in  their  canvases.  And  here  we  will  at- 
tempt again  to  illustrate,  by  certain  examples,  what 
aspects  of  life  found  most  ready  acceptance  by  the 

[  300  ] 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

Venetian  artists  of  the  Renaissance.  We  may  ven- 
ture to  seek  an  illustration  of  two  of  its  broader 
aspects  —  one  foreign,  the  other  native  to  the  mind 
of  Venice  as  reflected  in  her  life  and  in  her  art  — 
in  two  sculptured  figures  by  Antonio  Rizzo  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  These  two  figures, 
of  Adam  and  Mars,  are  most  original  in  conception. 
Adam  holds  the  apple  in  his  hand ;  it  seems  that 
he  has  just  partaken  of  it  and  that,  partaking,  he: 
has  been  initiated  into  a  new  vision.  His  beautiful 
clear-cut  face  is  upturned ;  his  lips  are  open ;  his 
hand  seems  to  hold  in  the  tumult  of  his  heart. 
There  is  as  yet  no  shame,  no  contrition,  no  sense 
of  sin  in  Adam's  look,  nor  in  his  attitude,  but  the 
immense  wonder  of  a  new  experience  with  its  yet 
undetermined  import ;  and  through  the  ecstasy  of 
his  vision  there  breaks  that  strange  pain  of  the 
mortal  man  whose  body  can  scarcely  support  its 
spiritual  burden.  It  seems  almost  as  if  Adam  were 
receiving  now  that  vision  of  the  ages  at  whose 
threshold  he  stood ;  he  has  opened  a  door  which 
can  never  again  be  shut ;  he  has  let  in  a  flood 
which  is  beyond  his  control,  and  he  is  rapt  in  the 
contemplation.  The  other  figure  who  fills  with 
Adam  a  niche  in  the  Arco  Foscari  is  Mars,  the  god 
of  war.  His  body  is  grandly  moulded,  stalwart  and 
disciplined  and  ready  for  action ;  but  there  are  no 

[  301  ] 


VENICE 

tempests  in  his  look  ;  there  is  no  herculean  de- 
velopment of  muscle  nor  trampling  vehemence  as  in 
the  fresco  of  Veronese.  Rizzo's  war-god  is  young, 
full  of  grace  and  beauty,  with  the  dream  also  of  a 
poet  on  his  sensuous  lips.  He  is  majestic  ;  his 
face  is  grave  and  thoughtful,  with  a  strange  sadness 
in  its  vigilant  wisdom.  He  and  Adam  seem  to 
strike  together  the  accord  of  the  Renaissance,  the 
union  of  a  great  expectancy,  an  uncomprehended 
newness,  with  controlled  and  ordered  purpose  and 
the  conviction  of  conquest.  It  is  the  latter  aspect 
which  seems  to  find  reflection  in  the  mind  of 
Venice  not  the  mystic  promise,  the  troubled  vision, 
which  the  Renaissance  held  for  some  of  those  on 
whom  its  influence  fell.  In  the  Venetians  of  the 
first  Renaissance  there  is  always  the  note  of  calm 
and  assured  knowledge ;  we  may  find  it  again  and 
again  in  their  artistic  annals.  In  the  Casa  Civran 
—  the  so-called  Casa  dell'  Otello  beside  the  Campo 
dei  Carmini  —  we  again  recognise  Rizzo's  hand  in 
one  of  the  most  lovely  and  characteristic  figures  of 
the  first  Renaissance,  which  has  fortunately  survived 
the  various  restorations  and  spoliations  of  the  house 
and  stands  still  intact  in  its  lonely  niche  on  the 
plastered  wall.  It  is  impossible  to  convey  in  words 
the  vivacity,  the  nobility  and  grace  of  this  young 
warrior :  the  proud  and  magnificent  control  gov- 

[  302  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

erning  each  motion  of  his  spirited  form,  the 
rhythm  in  response  to  which  each  member  of  him 
moves,  so  that  the  effect  on  us  is  indeed  that  of 
a  song,  a  victorious,  joyful  melody.  Again  and 
again  we  may  meet  them,  Mars  and  his  young  dis- 
ciple, and  others  of  their  kin,  in  Carpaccio's  crowds. 
The  young  Civran  warrior  might  have  stept  on  to 
his  niche  from  the  Death  of  St.  Ursula ;  moreover, 
the  life  that  thrills  in  him  is  felt  not  in  single  fig- 
ures only,  but  in  the  entire  conception  of  series 
after  series  of  Carpaccio,  in  Bellini's  Procession  of 
the  Cross,  in  Tintoretto's  St.  Ursula  and  the  Virgins 
in  the  Church  of  the  Mendicanti. 

It  was  thus  the  Venetians  confronted  life.  In 
portrait,  allegory  or  story,  realised  in  varying 
degrees  of  naivety,  splendour  and  refinement,  with 
more  or  less  penetration  and  psychological  insight, 
we  find  the  same  balance  and  control  —  a  unique 
harmony  of  strength,  grace  and  serenity.  And  if 
we  turn  to  the  religious  art  of  Venice  we  shall  be 
struck  by  a  lack  of  anything  like  mystic  rapture 
or  absorption  in  the  sufferings  of  Christ.  We  have 
but  two  examples  in  Venice  of  Bellini's  portrayal 
of  the  facts  of  Christ's  mature  life,  but  he  has 
treated  the  theme  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  with 
a  unique  profundity.  The  mystery  of  life  seems 
to  be  shadowed  in  the  face  of  his  Madonnas ;  his 

[  303  1 


VENICE 

saints  and  apostles,  so  striking  in  their  individuality, 
so  virile  in  their  piety,  have  a  significance  beyond 
their  perfect  act  of  worship.  No  Venetian  religious 
painter  before  Tintoretto  equalled  Bellini  in  solem- 
nity and  depth  of  conception  ;  but  in  all  we  find 
the  same  pervading  calm,  the  same  absence  of 
tumult  or  the  disturbing  element  of  pain  or  agony. 
We  will  choose  an  example  from  Basaiti  —  the 
most  perfect,  perhaps,  of  all  his  works  —  in  illus- 
tration of  what  seems  to  us  a  prevailing  charac- 
teristic of  the  Venetian  mind  both  for  strength 
and  weakness  —  his  Gesu  morto  con  due  Angeli.  It 
is  striking  in  its  originality  of  conception  and  full 
of  noble  and  tender  sentiment.  There  are  no 
weeping  women,  no  agonised  apostles  round  the 
body  of  Jesus ;  only  the  very  young  keep  watch 
beside  him,  two  winged  infants,  at  his  head  and  at 
his  feet.  They  have  found  him  here,  this  young 
dead  god,  laid  out  as  if  asleep  upon  the  flat  stone 
by  the  rock  —  no  blasted  rock,  its  crags  are  covered 
with  living  shrubs  and  plants.  And  he  is  in  the 
light :  there  is  no  ghostly  pallor  in  his  face  up- 
turned to  the  sky,  upon  his  long,  dark  hair ;  so 
beautiful  a  brow,  such  tender  cheeks,  so  strong 
and  brave  a  neck  they  have  never  seen.  And  he 
is  so  still,  he  lies  without  fear,  not  heeding  them. 
They  must  not  wake  him  from  his  sleep.  The 

[  304  1 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

infant  at  his  head,  whose  exquisitely  moulded  face 
is  full  of  that  strangely  pathetic,  antique  wisdom 
of  the  very  young,  half-elfish,  half-infantile,  feels 
the  burden  of  his  sagacity  upon  him.  Why  had 
that  brow  a  crown  of  thorns  instead  of  flowers 
about  it  ?  This  youth  to  whom  they  will  now 
bear  company  had  not  chosen  well  his  pillow  or 
his  crown  —  though  he  is  so  beautiful  he  was  not 
wise  enough  to  know  that  thorns  are  not  for  those 
who  would  be  at  rest.  In  the  picture  the  wise 
infant  has  taken  off  the  prickly  crown  that  it  may 
not  pierce  and  rend  the  dream  that  holds  the 
sleeper  there  so  long ;  he  is  full  of  the  knowledge 
of  his  triumph,  half-fearful  lest  it  should  not  be 
complete.  The  crown  of  thorns  hangs  on  his 
own  left  arm,  which  he  raises  half  in  warning,  half 
in  wonder,  feeling  as  his  elbow  bends  the  thorns 
upwards  on  his  arm  from  what  pain  he  has  saved 
that  beautiful  but  foolish  youth.  And  with  his 
right  hand  he  fondles  the  hair  of  Jesus,  drawing  it 
a  little  back  from  his  forehead  to  be  sure  that  in 
his  stealthy  theft  he  has  not  left  some  scratch, 
some  mark  of  pain.  But  there  are  no  traces  of 
the  crown  in  any  sign  of  pain,  only  a  faint,  faint 
band  beneath  the  hair  he  has  drawn  back  —  a 
shadow,  as  it  were,  of  Christ's  regality.  He  saved 
others,  Himself  He  cannot  save.  Now  with  this 

[  307  ] 


VENICE 

little  Saviour,  this  guardian  of  his  pillow,  he  can  at 
last  sleep  in  peace.  The  infant  at  the  feet  is  more 
baby  like,  less  wise,  more  gleefully  wondering.  He 
has  found  no  thorns  on  that  beautiful,  still  body, 
but  he  has  found  another  wonder  at  the  feet.  The 
toes  of  one  he  holds  in  his  tiny  hand,  stroking  it 
in  his  delight :  he  has  found,  it  seems,  a  little  hole 
upon  the  instep  bone  that  the  feet  of  humans  are 
not  wont  to  wear,  and  he  points  in  musing,  half- 
delighted  wonder  to  the  other  foot,  where  he  spies 
the  same  strange  mark.  It  is  a  game  to  this  curly 
headed  cherub.  He  has  not  yet  dreamed  of  contact 
with  something  beyond  the  reach  of  his  baby 
wisdom.  There  is  not  yet  in  his  chubby  face  that 
look  which  has  stolen  into  the  face  of  his  brother 
and  which  now  seems  to  put  a  world  between 
them,  a  look  that  amid  all  its  elfish  aloofness  is 
akin  to  the  solicitude  of  human  love.  What 
dream  was  this  of  Basaiti  —  the  figure  of  this 
young  God  of  Light  —  perfect  in  form,  luminous 
and  strong,  unspoiled  and  untroubled  in  his  sleep 
of  death  ?  His  eyes  if  they  were  open  would  be 
fountains  fed  from  the  beauty  of  the  world,  but  he 
has  borne  no  burden  of  humanity.  There  is  power 
to  suffer  in  that  strong  and  beautiful  young  face, 
but  it  is  not  the  power  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 
This  is  not  Jesus  who  agonised  in  the  garden,  or 

[  308  ] 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

who  wrote  upon  the  ground ;  it  is  not  the  man 
from  whom  Pilate  turned  away  his  face. 

There  is  one  only  —  the  last  and  greatest  of  the 
Venetians  of  the  Renaissance  —  who  could  sound 
all  notes  of  tragedy  and  pathos  as  well  as  notes  of 
joy.  Tintoretto,  the  supreme  Venetian,  the  great- 
est exponent  of  the  essential  spirit  of  Venice,  is 
the  son  of  a  wider  kingdom  than  hers  and  of  a 
greater  age  than  the  Renaissance.  Unsurpassed  as 
designer  and  colourist,  he  is  endowed  throughout 
with  the  peculiar  gifts  of  Venice  ;  but  during  those 
years  of  passionate  study,  in  which  he  was  winning 
here  and  there  the  secrets  of  his  art,  hungry  for 
knowledge,  careless  of  gain,  and  bargaining  only 
for  material  in  which  to  realise  his  conceptions  — 
during  those  years  in  which  he  lived  alone  in  con- 
tinual meditation  on  some  fresh  labour,  he  was 
probing  the  deep  and  passionate  things  of  humanity 
as  no  Venetian  artist  had  ever  probed  them  before. 
The  streets  and  churches  of  the  city  seem  to  echo 
still  to  the  steps  of  this  genius  at  once  so  robust,  so 
tender,  so  profound  and  so  joyous.  Ridolfi  laments 
the  lavishness  of  his  production,  arguing  that 
restraint  of  his  overflowing  fantasy  would  have 
strengthened  his  conceptions.  But  Tintoretto  had 
to  work  in  his  own  way  ;  the  instinct  that  flowered 
in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  the  Bacchus  and 

[  309  1 


VENICE 

Ariadne  and  the  Paradiso,  might  be  trusted  to 
choose  the  manner  of  its  relaxation  as  well  as  of  its 
labour.  No  painter,  perhaps,  has  so  wonderfully 
combined  the  dramatist  and  lyrist ;  for  Tintoretto 
with  all  his  vast  imaginative  strength  had  power 
also  over  the  tenderest  springs  of  melody.  There 
is  hardly  a  picture  of  his  in  which  some  exquisite 
face  of  youth  or  woman  will  not  strike  a  note  of 
tenderness,  and  we  need  only  call  to  mind  the 
Visitation  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  to  know 
what  Tintoretto's  tenderness  could  be.  He  had 
that  power,  the  gift  only  of  the  greatest,  so 
intensely  to  imagine  his  central  theme  that  the 
most  perfectly  executed  and  conspicuous  detail 
does  not  divert  us  into  lesser  issues.  It  is  exactly 
here  that  his  distinguishing  greatness  reveals  itself 
He  is  completely  sincere.  His  vision  is  too  com- 
prehensive to  overlook  what  really  filled  the  fore- 
ground ;  his  skill  of  hand  too  great  to  allow  its 
inclusion  to  be  other  than  an  element  in  the  real- 
isation of  his  central  theme  ;  his  concentration  too 
intense  to  make  him  fear  lest  an  accessory  should 
become  a  primary  interest.  We  may  pause  for  a 
moment  in  consideration  of  his  greatest  tragic 
triumph,  the  Crucifixion,  in  the  Scuola  di  San 
Rocco.  The  theme  is  immense,  and,  like  the 
Death  of  Abel,  it  is  treated  in  a  great  elemental 


THE   VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

spirit.  Amid  all  the  throes  of  nature  and  the 
sufferings  of  the  Son  of  Man,  the  world  goes  on  its 
way.  The  ghostly  figure  of  the  Arab  on  his  camel, 
and  the  caravan  winding  down  from  the  city  to 
depart  into  the  desert,  the  two  splendid  knights 
who  gaze  without  pity  or  understanding  on  this 
spectacle  of  the  death  of  slaves,  the  man  who  leans 
from  his  donkey  behind  the  Cross  of  Christ,  all  are 
as  prominent  to  their  little  circle  as  they  would  be 
in  life ;  and  they  have  just  that  prominence  for  us 
—  the  immediate  participators  in  the  tragedy  — 
that  they  would  have  in  life.  As  always  in  Tin- 
toretto, the  horizon  is  vast.  Wide  ranges  of  blue, 
undulating  country  extend  to  the  mountains,  above 
which  breaks  his  peculiar,  tender,  yellow  light  of 
dawn  ;  he  has  made  them  recede  into  unimagined 
distance  by  setting  across  the  mountains  and  the 
light  the  raised  arm  of  a  mounted  figure.  There 
is  a  great  calm  in  this  horizon,  while  in  the  middle 
distance  above  the  Arab  the  wind  has  set  the  leaves 
quivering  on  a  tree  whose  thin  and  twisted  branches 
sway  wildly  against  the  blackness  of  the  storm. 
The  most  impressive  light  for  this  picture  is 
obtained  when  the  setting  sun  illuminates  the 
marvellous  group  of  mourners  at  the  foot  of  the 
Cross,  so  that  they  stand  out  in  startling  brightness 
against  the  heightened  depths  of  the  vast  back- 


VENICE 

ground,    while    Christ    hangs    above    them    dark 
within  the  darkness. 

The  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  is  the  supreme  monu- 
ment to  Tintoretto's  poetic,  as  to  his  plastic  genius. 
If  we  are  justified  in  feeling  that  his  understand- 
ing of  the  life  of  Christ  may  be  a  true  touchstone 
of  a  man's  philosophy,  it  will  become  a  matter  of 
first  interest  to  us  to  know  how  so  profound  a 
thinker  as  Tintoretto  approached  the  subject. 
There  is  no  lack  here  indeed  of  tragic  depth.  The 
Temptation  of  Christ  is  sufficient  alone  to  vindicate 
Tintoretto  as  gifted  with  understanding  above  his 
fellows.  Another  might  have  compassed  the  tu- 
multuous, beautiful  earth-spirit,  with  muscular, 
proud,  uplifted  arms,  and  face  burning  with  de- 
sire ;  but  who  else  could  have  added  that  touch  of 
impotence  to  his  restless,  aspiring  gesture,  or  have 
dreamed  the  tenderness  in  the  lovely,  sorrowful  face 
of  Christ  that  looks  down  on  this  radiant  creature 
of  desire,  entirely  without  judgment  or  stern  de- 
nial, but  as  if  too  remote  from  the  appeal  to  make 
reply?  The  exceeding  pathos  of  this  picture 
would  have  been  missed  if  Lucifer,  the  brightest 
of  the  spirits  that  fell,  were  a  whit  less  radiant ;  if 
Christ's  face  had  one  shade  less  of  compassion  in 
its  wondering  aloofness.  And  for  our  last  example 
we  may  choose  a  picture  in  which  the  strength  of 

[  312  ] 


THE    VENETIAN    RENAISSANCE 

Tintoretto  is  realised  in  quietness  so  complete  that 
a  hush  seems  to  lie  about  it.  No  painting  of  his 
is  greater  in  conception  than  that  of  Christ  before 
Pilate.  The  moment  he  has  chosen  is  that  in 
which  Pilate  performs  his  vain  ablution  before  the 
multitude  who  lightly  accept  the  guilt  he  attempts 
to  transfer,  in  the  awful  cry,  "  His  blood  be  on  us 
and  on  our  children."  Tintoretto  has  set  Pilate's 
face  in  shadow :  a  single  ray  falls  across  the  pillar 
behind  his  head.  He  looks  away  from  Christ  but 
not  towards  the  crowd  :  he  has  spoken  :  he  would 
fain  make  an  end  of  this  drama.  It  is  the  fine, 
thoughtful,  astute  face  of  a  Venetian  councillor 
that  Tintoretto  has  depicted.  Christ  stands  before 
him  in  the  full  light  —  removed  only  by  a  single 
step  —  a  motionless  white  figure  above  the  restless 
crowd,  complete  in  control,  gathered  into  himself 
and  folded  in  a  great  silence  and  calm  ;  yet  not 
now  more  alone  than  when  the  crowds  cried  after 
him  day  and  night  for  a  sign.  His  head  is  bowed 
upon  his  breast :  his  closely  folded  robe  follows 
the  slight  curve  of  his  body :  his  bound  hands  lie 
nerveless  in  their  cords :  yet  beside  the  strength  of 
this  bound  prisoner  the  animation  of  the  fore- 
ground figure  who  grips  the  cord  is  impotence 
indeed.  Most  wonderful  of  all  perhaps  is  the 
contrast  of  a  busy  scribe  at  his  table  below  the 


VENICE 

judgment-seat,  pausing  with  suspended  pen  for  the 
words  that  shall  convict,  with  the  majestic,  motion- 
less figure  of  Christ.  We  seem  to  hear  the  words 
proceeding  from  those  closed  lips :  he  would  utter 
them  so,  not  moving.  It  is  less  the  originality  of 
this  picture  that  impresses  us  than  its  profound  di- 
rectness and  truth,  comparable  only  to  the  story  it 
illustrates.  In  understanding  none  has  surpassed 
the  conception  of  that  single,  solitary  figure,  face 
to  face  with  the  vast  fabric  of  the  judgment-hall, 
weighted  with  its  burden  of  custom  and  tradition  ; 
none  has  more  profoundly  imagined  the  tragic 
triumph  in  that  entire  loneliness  of  the  great  and 
good  before  the  tribunal  of  man. 


[316] 


Chapter  Cletoen 

THE   SOUL   THAT   ENDURES 

ON  an  evening  of  late  September  Venice  re- 
vealed herself  to  one  of  her  lovers  amidst 
a  spectacle  beyond  any  range  of  dreams. 
Evening  was  closing  in  upon  the  city  with  cloud 
and  breeze.  In  the  church  of  San  Giorgio  Mag- 
giore  the  Tintorettos  gleamed  dimly  from  the 
walls ;  daylight  was  gone.  But  in  the  tower  high 
overhead,  clear  of  the  shadows  of  confining  build- 
ings, the  day  had  still  a  course  to  run.  The  tide 
was  low,  and  land  and  water  stretched  out  in  inter- 
changing coils  of  olive  and  azure  beneath  a  purple 
storm-cloud,  whilst  ever  against  the  bar  of  the 
Lido  rolled  the  sea,  dyed  with  that  celestial  blue 
that  sometimes  steals  from  the  Adriatic  into  the 
basin  of  San  Marco  to  prostrate  itself  at  the  con- 
quering Lion's  feet.  And  there  lay  Venice,  her 
form  outlined  against  a  flood  of  pearl,  the  water 
bending  in  a  tender,  luminous  bow  behind  her 
towers.  Far  away,  across  the  mysterious  expanse 
of  low  lagoon,  Torcello  and  Burano  gleamed  out 
in  startling  pallor  against  the  storm,  amid  a  wild 


VENICE 

confusion  of  dark  earth  and  glittering  water. 
The  Northern  Alps  were  hidden  in  darkness  at 
the  horizon,  but  westward  across  the  mainland 
the  clear,  sharp  peaks  of  the  Euganean  hills  rose 
up  behind  the  city's  pearly  halo,  behind  the  deep 
blue  of  the  surging  lowlands,  in  almost  unearthly 
outline  against  the  sunset  sky.  In  front  of  them  a 
livid  fire  rolled  sullenly  along  the  valley,  sending 
up  purple  smoke  into  the  cloud.  The  storm 
genie,  summoned  by  nether  powers,  was  descend- 
ing to  his  fearful  tryst  behind  the  Euganeans,  but, 
as  he  sank,  he  bent  his  face  upon  the  pale  form  of 
Venice,  his  enchantress,  and  the  fire  of  his  wonder 
and  of  his  adoration  kindled  in  all  her  slumbering 
limbs  a  glow  of  responsive  life.  A  flood  of  crim- 
son suffused  the  pallor  of  her  pearly  diadem,  and 
her  maidens,  sleeping  grey  among  the  waters  round 
her,  unfolded  rosy  petals  upon  the  surface  of  the 
lagoon. 

It  is  this  power  of  living  communion  with  the 
daily  pageant  in  which  sun  and  moon  are  doge 
and  emperor,  and  the  stars  and  the  clouds  their 
retinue  —  this  it  is  which,  finding  expression  once 
at  Venice  in  a  temporal  glory  that  has  passed 
away,  is  the  abiding  assurance  of  her  immortality. 
This  is  the  spirit  which,  if  once  it  helped  to  make 
her  great,  still  makes  her  great  to-day,  the  spirit 


THE    SOUL   THAT   ENDURES 

that  endures.  For  Venice  is  not  a  dead  body : 
she  is  a  living  soul.  Overflowing  all  moulds  in 
which  we  may  think  to  contain  her,  she  reveals 
herself  continually  in  new  mystery,  new  wonder. 
We  spoke  of  Venice  as  being  paved  with  sky,  and 
every  day  there  is  cast  upon  her  pavement  a  fresh 
revelation  of  changefulness  and  beauty.  A  thou- 
sand forms  and  patterns  move  in  procession  over  the 
water,  passing  each  instant  into  something  "  rich 
and  strange,"  a  fleeting  succession  of  aerial  designs 
drawn  with  tremulous  pencil  in  colours  which 
never  lived  on  the  palette  of  a  mortal  artist.  There 
is  a  body  of  truth  at  the  root  of  the  old  fancy  which 
gifted  water-maidens  with  subtler,  more  perilously 
powerful  allurements  than  their  sisters  of  the  land. 
Their  element  is  mutability,  but  they  are  not  soul- 
less, as  men  have  said :  it  is  only  that  their  soul  is 
as  the  soul  of  water  —  luminous,  flowing,  mutable, 
reflective,  musical,  profound:  for,  though  they 
are  mutable,  they  are  not  shallow ;  it  is  a  part  of 
their  being  that  they  should  be  susceptible  of 
change.  They  cannot  tire  their  victims,  they 
whose  beauty  is  continually  renewed;  and  yet  it 
may  be  that  men  do  well  to  fear  them,  for  they 
have  secret  communings  with  things  men  do  not 
dream  of.  Venice  has  held  men,  she  holds  them 
still,  with  the  fascination  of  a  water  spirit ;  they 


VENICE 

yield  to  her,  they  grasp  her,  but  she  is  still  before 
them,  never  mastered,  never  fully  known.  Let 
those  for  whom  conquest  is  the  ideal  in  love  be- 
ware of  Venice  the  incomparable,  the  uncompass- 
able :  they  who  would  win  her  must  have  power 
to  worship  what  they  cannot  comprehend,  they 
must  desire  to  leave  her  spirit  free.  Then  she 
will  unfold  her  heart  to  them,  she  will  give  her- 
self in  a  moment  when  the  pursuit  is  still.  And 
to  those  who  can  receive  the  gift,  she  will  give 
herself  again  and  yet  again ;  only  they  must  come 
freshly  expectant  of  each  fresh  revelation,  not 
clinging  to  past  impressions,  not  claiming  a  mem- 
ory to  be  revived.  For  each  renewal  is  a  trans- 
formation, and  we  must  bring  new  senses  to 
receive  it,  senses  alive  and  fresh  as  earth  each 
morning  to  the  touch  of  the  old  sun  ever  new. 

Venice,  when  she  was  most  glorious,  did  but 
catch  and  imprison  in  her  stones  those  matchless 
harmonies  of  fleeting  colour  which  the  sun  still 
lavishes  upon  her  waters.  And  there  is  a  season 
of  the  year  which,  with  sun  and  mist  co-operat- 
ing, hangs  once  again  her  pale  walls  with  their 
ancient  splendour,  and  plays  a  noble  part  in  the 
revival  of  the  past.  With  the  first  days  of  autumn 
the  scirocco  begins  to  wind  about  the  heart  of  her 
plants  and  creepers,  and  to  steal  into  their  veins. 

[  320  ] 


THE    SOUL   THAT    ENDURES 

Swiftly  they  yield  to  the  intoxication.  Under  the 
folds  of  the  grey  mist-mantle,  they  drink  draught 
after  draught  of  her  brave  wine.  But  another 
touch  is  needed  to  draw  out  the  virtues  of  that 
liquor  :  after  Circe,  Apollo.  He  bends  his  look 
upon  them,  and  they  yield  their  stores,  decking 
once  more  the  walls  of  Venice  with  frescoes  of 
scarlet,  green  and  gold,  paving  once  more  her 
waterways  with  their  old-accustomed  pomp.  In 
the  Sacca  della  Misericordia  this  natural  fresco  has 
a  peculiarly  beautiful  effect ;  for  upon  the  spaces 
of  water  between  the  rafts  that  float  there,  the 
rich  creepers,  interwoven  among  the  trees  of  the 
garden  of  the  Spiriti,  fling  an  enchanted  carpet  of 
chequered  crimson  and  green  upon  a  pale  rose 
ground,  covering  the  whole  expanse,  save  for  one 
space  whereon  is  set  the  pale  blue  watermark  of 
the  sky.  One  may  make  rare  studies  here  of  the 
carpets  and  bright  mats  that  are  to  be  seen  hung 
out  in  the  pictures  of  the  old  Venetian  masters. 
They  did  not  copy  from  the  East  alone,  or  rather 
they  copied  from  a  greater  East,  whose  treasures 
travel  through  a  rarer  element  than  water  day 
after  day  to  the  shores  of  the  western  world. 
The  complete  stillness  of  the  pools  in  the  Sacca, 
undisturbed  by  any  passing  steamboat,  and  even 
unruffled  by  the  motion  of  a  gondola,  through  the 

[  321  ] 


VENICE 

protection  of  the  intervening  rafts,  gives  the  rich 
pattern  a  durability  unattainable  in  the  waters  of 
the  canals.  There  is  only,  as  it  were,  a  faint 
breathing  of  the  surface,  enough  to  give  perpetual 
interchange  and  commerce  among  the  bold  brush- 
strokes of  colour  —  incessant,  subtle  weaving  of 
new  harmonies  upon  the  ground-bass  —  the  shad- 
ows deepening  or  relaxing,  when  sometimes  an  in- 
sect dips  or  a  fish  rises  and  starts  a  fairy  circle  at 
a  touch  that  spreads  among  the  colours  until  its 
delicate  life  is  lost. 

And  if  at  times  we  may  thus  see  the  past  in  the 
present,  at  other  times  we  may  dream  the  present 
back  into  the  past.  Night,  the  worker  of  so  many 
miracles,  holds  a  key  with  which  we  may  unlock 
in  Venice  the  secret  of  bygone  times.  There  are 
hours  on  the  lagoons  when  even  in  daylight  the 
forgotten  ages  live  again  and  we  may  keep  com- 
pany with  whom  we  will,  but  in  the  heart  of  the 
city  it  is  by  night  that  we  may  lay  hand  on  the 
pulse  of  her  ancient  life,  and  feel  it  warm  to  our 
touch,  beating  slow  but  constant  behind  the  com- 
motion, often  the  desecration,  of  later  times.  The 
flow  of  the  Grand  Canal  is  less  troubled  than  by 
day  :  it  has  intervals  of  peace  in  which  it  may  sink 
into  the  broad,  dark  calm  of  Carpaccio's  waters. 
Palace  after  palace,  in  fearless  and  unstudied  alterna- 

[  322  ] 


A    PALACE    DOOR. 


THE    SOUL   THAT    ENDURES 

tions  of  Byzantine,  Gothic,  Ogival,  Renaissance, 
Barocco,  tower  above  us,  their  pillars  and  balconies 
gleaming  in  faint  light  of  moon  or  lamp  :  we  seem 
almost  to  trace  upon  their  surface  the  forms  of  men 
and  beasts,  and  to  clothe  them  once  more  in  the 
gold  and  colour  which  Venice  learned  of  her  la- 
goons. By  day  we  feast  upon  the  tints  still  left  to 
fall  upon  the  waters,  we  praise  the  aged  snow  of 
crumbling  stone  or  the  shades  of  twisted  columns, 
jr  the  rich  profusion  of  the  pale  Ca  d'  Oro.  But 
what  do  we  know  of  Venice  when  she  shone  upon 
the  waters  in  true  regality,  a  monument  of  all  the 
glory  that  the  heart  or  eye  of  man  could  conceive  ? 
No  one  has  left  us  any  detailed  record  of  the  fres- 
coed fa9ades  of  the  Venetian  palaces,  whether  on 
the  Grand  Canal  or  in  the  remoter  waterways ; 
only  here  and  there  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  them  on 
the  canvases  of  contemporary  painters.  It  is  pro- 
vokingly  general  among  the  travellers  or  native- 
lovers  of  Venice,  who  set  themselves  to  praise  her 
in  words,  to  find  that  they  have  chosen  a  medium 
incapable  of  achieving  what  it  was  asked  to  do, 
and  to  throw  down  their  weapon  in  the  moment 
of  trial,  struck  dumb  by  the  immense  wonder  of 
their  theme.  They  cease  from  their  task  before, 
it  seems  to  us,  they  have  well  begun  it,  always 
anticipating  the  stinging  tongue  of  the  dragon, 

[  325  1 


VENICE 

Incredulity.  We  could  well  forgive  them  their 
inadequacy,  so  frankly  recognised,  had  they  but 
attempted  a  mere  catalogue  of  some  of  the  frescoes 
on  the  walls.  Now,  it  is  at  night  alone  that  we 
can  repeople  them  ;  that,  as  we  pass  along,  we  can 
look  up  and  read  into  the  shadowy  spaces  those 
brilliant  chronicles  of  beauty,  power  and  pride.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  heavy  fate  that  awaits  in  Venice  the 
artist  who  must  work  in  words ;  colour  and  music 
can  draw  nearer,  can  almost  attain  to  the  reality 
itself;  and  yet  by  words  also  there  is  something  to 
be  conveyed  of  her  enduring  beauty.  The  fact 
which  words  can  compass  may  be  so  told  that 
there  is  born  from  it  a  sentiment  of  that  rich  at- 
mosphere which  is  beyond  the  reach  of  words; 
they  may  remind  or  may  awaken  wonder,  itself  a 
new  sense  with  which  to  apprehend.  Even  words 
may  tell  of  the  water  snake  of  green  and  gold  that 
writhes  and  gleams  hour  after  hour  in  the  faintly 
stirred  depths  of  the  canal,  a  creature  that  in  the 
world  above  is  a  dull  grey  upright  pole;  or  of 
golden  treasures,  once  the  refuse  of  the  calli,  trans- 
formed to  splendour  as  they  float  out  over  the 
lagoon;  or  of  the  sudden  lapping  of  the  water 
under  the  wind  down  the  north  lagoon  at  mid- 
night, that  breaks  the  smooth  image  of  the  moon 
into  a  thousand  ripples  and  passes  in  a  wave  that 

[  326  ] 


THE    SOUL    THAT    ENDURES 

makes  the   dim   lamps   tremble   into   the  narrow 
waterways  of  the  city. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  waterways  of  Venice  that 
at  night  are  eloquent  of  the  past,  that  seem  to  take 
once  more  their  ancient  shape  and  venture  near 
for  colloquy  :  the  streets  and  squares  and  churches 
are  full  of  spirits,  not  unkindly,  not  afraid,  less  si- 
lent and  secretive  than  in  the  busy  day,  when  they 
are  lonely  among  a  people  careless  of  them,  with 
other  thoughts,  other  needs  and  other  destinies. 
Many  a  porch  or  gable  or  wide-projecting  roof, 
or  sculpture  of  fantastic  beast  or  naive  saint  or 
kneeling  angel,  seems  to  step  out  and  call  upon  us 
in  the  night,  catching  in  us  perhaps  as  we  pass  by 
some  touch  of  sympathy  with  the  enduring  soul 
of  the  past.  One  must  be  late  indeed  in  Venice 
to  secure  untroubled  peace.  Ever  and  again,  even 
after  midnight,  the  silence  of  the  great  white 
campos  is  broken  by  a  group  scattered  here  and 
there  before  the  door  of  a  cafe ;  voices  in  eager 
talk  will  echo  under  a  low  portico,  a  sleepy  child 
will  clatter  by  in  wooden  pattens.  But  in  the  low- 
beamed,  dimly  lighted  courts,  or  on  the  dark  steps 
at  the  water-side,  under  some  deserted  sotto-portico, 
the  sounds  of  the  present  strike  across  us  like  dis- 
tant voices  in  a  dream.  The  one  night  that  lies 
over  all  the  ages  draws  our  spirit  into  harmony 

[  327  ] 


VENICE 

with  these  stones  and  lapping  waters,  that  have 
stood  through  change  and  stress  of  time,  that 
have  outlived  solemnity  and  joyous  festival  and  have 
passed  from  gentle  usage  and  glorious  vesture  into 
the  custody  of  the  poorest,  into  neglect  and  decay. 
What  talk  have  not  these  courtyards  overheard, 
what  rich  vesture  has  not  swept  through  them, 
what  noble  thoughts  and  high  hopes  have  not 
confided  in  their  silence  ?  And  on  the  dirty  steps 
where  the  children  sit  and  play  and  throw  their 
refuse  into  the  water,  what  carpets  have  not 
been  spread,  what  proud  feet  have  not  pressed  to 
pass  into  the  gondola  and  join  the  triumphant 
processional  of  Venice  in  her  prime  ? 

But  what  of  ancient  Venice  ?  We  sometimes 
despair  of  re-creating  her.  We  ponder  on  Rialto, 
we  watch  her  lights  from  the  lagoons,  we  go  in 
and  out  among  her  calli,  peering  into  door  and 
courtyard,  climbing  an  outer  stair,  penetrating  the 
recesses  of  sotto-portico  or  cellar  ;  and  many  records 
we  find  of  the  life  which  once  she  lived,  but  all 
belong  to  the  Venice  of  that  second  age,  when  she 
was  already  an  established  city.  We  cannot  de- 
populate her  and  see  again  that  company  of  islands 
gathered  together  in  the  lagoon,  of  various  shapes 
and  sizes,  some  covered  with  wood  and  under- 
growth, others  rising  with  bare  backs  from  the 

[  328  ] 


THE   SOUL   THAT   ENDURES 

water,  with  large  and  lonely  outposts  lying  at 
greater  distance  here  and  there.  Yet  now  and 
again  come  days  when  the  spirit  even  of  this  re- 
moter period  returns  to  its  well-nigh  forgotten 
grave,  the  days  when  Venice  lies  under  the  rule 
of  the  rain-clouds.  The  inner  waterways  of  the 
city  lie  dead  like  opaque  marble  under  the  danc- 
ing drops ;  but  down  the  ways  that  lead  from  the 
lagoons  the  wind  pours  strong  and  restless  from 
the  sea,  beating  the  water  against  the  walls  and 
into  the  damp  vaults,  a  challenge  from  the  sea  to 
the  city,  from  the  sea  unbridled  and  insurgent  — 
yet  not  insurgent,  for  it  has  never  submitted  to 
her  sway.  Within  Venice,  along  the  slippery 
streets,  there  is  gloom  and  desolation ;  the  sun  is 
the  only  visitor  to  whom  her  heart  stands  ever 
open  ;  she  would  shut  her  gates  if  she  could  to 
these  wild  beings  of  cloud  and  wind,  these  house- 
less, grey  pilgrims  that,  at  no  bidding  of  hers, 
come  and  claim  lodging  with  her  as  they  take 
their  nomad  way.  I  know  not  what  of  the  old, 
wild  fisher  heart  comes  to  visit  Venice  in  these 
days ;  phantoms  of  old  time  are  borne  in  on  the 
gusty  winds  from  the  sea  and  the  lagoon,  and 
the  commanding  voice  of  the  sea  wind  they  must 
have  known  so  well  seems  to  clothe  them  with 
substantial  life.  Into  the  mist  vanishes  the  fres- 

[  329  ] 


VENICE 

coed  Venice  of  high  pomp  and  festival,  the  Venice 
of  regal  Bucintoro  and  banqueting  of  kings,  of 
brilliant  policy  and  stern  civic  control.  A  still 
deeper  oblivion  receives  the  Venice  of  small  joys 
and  small  sorrows,  of  Longhi  and  Goldoni ;  and 
the  excitement  of  the  formless  past  creeps  into  us, 
when  yet  the  future  was  to  make  —  the  hard  life 
of  the  first  dwellers  upon  the  islands,  acute  and 
mobile  in  their  hourly  traffic  with  wind  and  sea. 

There  is  a  corner  of  Venice  little  known  to  the 
stranger,  or  even  to  Venetians  themselves,  except 
as  a  passage  to  the  cemetery  of  San  Michele,  but 
not  less  loved  on  that  account  by  those  who  are 
happy  enough  to  have  their  lot  cast  there.  The 
breezes  blow  with  a  freshness  that  is  rare  in  the 
more  confined  spaces  of  the  city  or  on  the  Grand 
Canal ;  the  tide  sets  into  the  Sacca  della  Miseri- 
cordia  full  and  fresh  from  the  northern  lagoon, 
still  beating  with  the  pulse  of  the  open  sea.  This 
favoured,  this  unique  corner  of  Venice  is  a  large 
square  basin  of  water,  open  on  one  side  to  the 
lagoon.  Venice,  at  one  time,  could  boast  of  many 
such,  but  one  by  one  they  have  been  filled  in  with 
earth,  and  in  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the 
neighbouring  Fondamente  Nuove  were  built,  the 
Sacca  della  Misericordia  itself  narrowly  escaped 
inclusion  in  the  paved  parade  that  was  to  unite 

[  330  ] 


ZATTERE. 


THE    SOUL   THAT   ENDURES 

the  whole  of  North  Venice  from  Santa  Giustina 
to  Sant'  Alvise.  The  fiat  had  gone  forth,  but 
happily  it  remains  as  yet  unfulfilled,  and  the  Sacca 
is  still  a  harbour  for  the  zattere,  the  timber  rafts 
that  are  brought  down  from  the  mountains,  and 
set  here  to  season  awhile,  in  sight  of  their  old 
home,  till  at  last  they  are  borne  away  to  do  service 
in  the  works  of  man.  A  tiny  hut  of  planks  with- 
out a  door  is  set  up  here  and  there  upon  the  rafts, 
and  a  couple  of  dogs  are  continually  upon  the 
prowl.  Something  in  this  woodyard,  the  building 
of  the  rafts,  the  lapping  of  the  inflowing  tide 
against  them,  its  waves  twisted  in  some  angle  into 
a  petulant  restlessness,  seems  to  carry  us  back  to 
the  primeval  days  before  the  historic  settlement  of 
the  fugitives  from  the  great  mainland  cities,  back 
to  the  manners  of  the  humble  fishermen  who  lived 
a  hard  and  frugal  life  among  the  low  islands  of 
the  Adriatic,  in  constant  commerce  with  their 
patron  the  sea,  in  constant  vigilance  against  his 
aggression. 

The  night-lapping  of  the  waves  against  the 
Sacca  della  Misericordia  calls  to  mind  the  two 
toiling  fishermen  of  Theocritus,  whose  life  must 
have  been  strangely  like  that  of  the  first  dwellers 
on  the  Rivo  Alto.  Let  us  quote  from  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang's  translation.  "Two  fishers  on  a  time  together 

[  333  ] 


VENICE 

lay  and  slept :  they  had  strown  the  dry  sea-moss 
for  a  bed  in  their  wattled  cabin,  and  there  they 
lay  against  the  leafy  wall.  Beside  them  were 
strewn  the  instruments  of  their  toilsome  hands, 
the  fishing-creels,  the  rods  of  reed,  the  hooks,  the 
sails  bedraggled  with  sea-spoil,  the  lines,  the  weels, 
the  lobster-pots  woven  of  rushes,  the  seines,  two  oars 
and  an  old  coble  upon  props.  Beneath  their  heads 
was  a  scanty  matting,  their  clothes,  their  sailor's 
caps.  Here  was  all  their  toil,  here  all  their  wealth. 
The  threshold  had  never  a  door,  nor  a  watch-dog: 
all  things,  all  to  them  seemed  superfluity,  for 
Poverty  was  their  sentinel.  They  had  no  neighbour 
by  them,  but  ever  against  their  narrow  cabin  gently 
floated  up  the  sea.  "  This  is  a  page  for  the  history 
of  Venice  in  her  infancy,  or  rather  for  the  history 
of  that  earlier  time  when  Venice  was  as  yet  unborn. 
Out  among  the  islands  of  the  lagoon,  which  on  a 
calm,  vague  day  of  summer  seem  to  hover  in  the 
atmosphere  upon  a  silver  haze,  among  those  lumi- 
nous paths  of  chrysophrase  and  porphyry,  mother- 
of-pearl  and  opal,  we  shall  still  find  some  footsteps 
of  these  first  Venetians  unerased  by  tract  of  time. 
Perhaps  it  is  at  Sant'  Erasmo  that  the  print  is 
clearest ;  there  are  few  materials  that  we  cannot 
find  here  for  reconstruction  of  the  primeval  settle- 
ment. There  are  the  rush-roofed  shelters  of  the 

[  334  ] 


THE    SOUL   THAT    ENDURES 

boats  and  the  rude  landing-stages  ;  there  are  the 
low,  white  capane  roofed  with  thatch  or  tiles, 
the  long,  narrow,  stagnant  waterways,  the  high, 
grassy  levels  bordering  the  water ;  there  are  fields 
of  reeds,  and  thickets  or  fringes  of  rustling  poplars ; 
there  are  valli  where  the  fish  stir  and  leap  and 
gleam  continuously,  breaking  the  smooth  water 
into  a  thousand  ripples ;  there  is  the  broad,  central 
waterway,  and  countless  lesser  channels  and  pools 
among  the  reeds,  where  one  may  see  a  boat  slowly 
winding,  guided  perhaps  by  children,  their  little 
figures  standing  out  against  the  desolate  landscape, 
the  silence  broken  by  no  voice  but  theirs.  Thus 
must  Venice  have  been  in  her  infancy.  And  if 
from  among  these  lonely  waterways  and  grassy 
flats  of  Sant'  Erasmo  we  look  forward  into  the 
future,  we  can  anticipate  the  gradual  evolution  of 
a  city  such  as  Venice  was  afterwards  to  be.  The 
building  of  the  first  mud-huts ;  the  driving  of  the 
first  close-set  clumps  of  piles  to  support  more  solid 
structures ;  the  filling  of  marsh-pools  and  strength- 
ening of  foundations  ;  the  light  wooden  bridges 
thrust  across  the  water,  as  one  may  see  them  on  the 
Lido  to-day  ;  the  transition  from  houses  of  wood  to 
houses  of  brick  and  stone,  from  thatch  to  tiles  ;  the 
building  of  churches  on  the  higher  ground,  each 
with  its  plot  of  grass  about  it;  the  paving  of 

[  335  1 


VENICE 

the  most  frequented  ways,  the  construction  of 
wells  and  chimneys,  of  paved  campo  and  fonda- 
menta ;  till  we  reach  at  last  the  city  of  palaces,  of 
temples  and  of  towers,  the  city  of  sumptuous  and 
varied  colour,  the  Venezia  nobilissima  of  Carpaccio 
and  Gentile  Bellini. 


